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An Illustrated Monthly 

Vol. XL IX 

Xon&on : 




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Original from 




Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

BEAUTIES, THE NATION'S. Where Our Fairest Women Were Born . . . . Frederick Dolman. 391 
Illustrations from Paintings and Engravings. 

BILL THE BLOODHOUND P.G. Wodehouse. 381 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

BLACK FOR LUCK P. G. Wodehouse. 643 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Dudley Tennant. 

CARLYLE AND HER LITTLE CHARLOTTE, MRS. A New Carlyle Discovery. A Series of Un- 
published Letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle, With a Commentary by Reginald Blunt . . . . 281 , 413 

Illustrations from Photographs, etc 
CASE OF HAVE TO, A Morley Roberts. 213 

Illustrations by Henry Evison. 
" CHARACTERS, MY " John Theodore Tussaud. 188 

Illustrations by Gerald Leake, R.B.A. 


COLLINS, ARTHUR. " Mv Reminiscences " 66 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 
CONCEALED ART P. G. Wodthouse. 145 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

CRIME, THE BEST-PAYING Waldemar Kaempffert. 326 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations from Facsimiles. 
CULTURE AND GERMAN CULTURE Sir Ray Lankester, K.C.B., F.R.S. 31 

Illustrations from Drawings. 

CURIOSITIES. 120,240,360,480,600,720 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

DINNER HERE. A One-Act Play Mrs. Barry Pain. 674 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 

DISCOVERY, THE Austin Philips. 623 

Illustrations by Sydney Adam son. 


EIGHTH HOLE, THE Austin Philips. 528 

Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 
ENGLISH COURT AND THE ENGLISH PEOPLE, THE.. H.R.H. The Infanta Eulalia of Spain. 250 

Illustrations by A. Gilbert. 

FEET, ARE WE INHERITING BEAUTIFUL ? Onha A. Merrill Hawkes, M.Sc. (B'ham\ BScALond.). 298 

Illustrations from Paintings, Photographs, and Diagrams- 

FILMING THE POPE Cleveland Mofjett. 432 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
"FUNNY AS THEY CAN, AS" 98,209,346,462,557 

Illustrations from Drawings. 

GHOST-LADY OF THE KAISER'S HOUSE, THE From the French of G. Lenotre. 354 

GRAMOPHONE TRICKS . . n ■ ■ . . , . .. H.C.S. Colborne. 358 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


INDEX. in. 


UEROES, THE NATION'S. Where Our Great Sailors and Soldiers Were Born . . Frederick Dolman. 16 

Illustrations by Dudley Ten n ant* 
HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT. A Norwegian Story for Children . . Retold in English by E. Dyke. 467 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 

HUNS, A PRISONER OF THE. Six Months in German Prisons Dr. Hugh Cimino. 494 

Illustrations by Arch Webb, and from Photographs. 

ILEANE. A Story for Children Translated jrotn the French by E. Dyke. 113 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 
IMPRISONED VOICE, THE . . . . Virginia Yeatnan Remnitz. 58 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 

JEWEL DANCE, THE Violet M. Methley. 247 

Illustrations by Frank Gillett, R.I. J ^° 

JOFFRE, ALL ABOUT GENERAL. I.— A Portrait-Study of the Man. II.— A Day at the Front with 

General Joffre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , . . mm ^Tt 

Illustrations from Photographs. ^ 


KAISER AND HIS COURT, THE H.R.H. The Infanta Eulalia of Spain. 574 

Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

KNIGHT OF THE ONION SHIELD, THE F. Carmichael Brunlon. 590 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. oy ^ 

LADY-BIRD, THE : Is It a Friend or a Foe of the Gardener ? . . . . John J. Ward, F.ES. 667 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

LITERAL TRANSLATION, A Violet M. Melhley. 660 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfield. 

3IADE TO MEASURE W.W.Jacobs. 4*0 

Illustrations by Will Owen. J ° y 

MAKING OF MAC'S, THE P. G. Wodehouse. 515 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

Illustrations by Dudley TennanL 
MASTER AND PUPIL* R. S.Warren Bell. 268 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 
MY WIFE AND I Fred Terry. 635 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


HI- — The Puzzle of the " Jumping Bean " ; How and Why It Jumps. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

PERPLEXITIES . . Henry E. Dudeney. 1 1 1, 233, 345, 466, 599, 712 

Illustrations from Diagrams, 

Illustrations by Cha*. Grave. 

PIRATE'S GARDEN, THE From the French of Fridiric Boutet. 292 

Illustrations by Frederick Gardner. 

" PLAYS " OF SAVAGES, SOME MAGICAL. Here described for the first time. P. Amaury Talbot. 691 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

** POPE, FILMING THE." A remarkable experience of an operator in obtaining the most extraordinary 

moving pictures ever taken Cleveland Moffett. 432 


Fisher, Lord 169 

Henderson, Brigadier-General Sir David 172 

Jellicoe, Admiral Sir John 174 

Illustrations from Photographs. 
PRINT " HOW I " BROKE INTO. Being the personal statements of certain well-known Authors 
explaining why they took to Literature as a Profession, and how they first came to make a " Hit " with 

the reading public 81, 154 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

PRISONER OF THE HUNS, A. Six Months in German Prisons Dr. Hugh Cimino. 494 

Illustrations by Arch Webb, and from Photographs. 

PRISONER OF WAR, A P. G. Wodehouse. 305 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

PUMPKIN, MAKING A GIANT Written and Illustrated by £. Leonard Bastin. 710 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Collins, Arthur 66 

Neilson, Julia 635 

Terry, Fred 635 

Tussaud, John Theodore Orrair a I -from ^ 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings, 








Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

RULES OF WAR, THE From tht Russian of Vasili Nemirovich-Danchenko 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. Translated by Alder Anderson. 

Bombardier Wells. 536 
P. G. Wodehouse. 72 

According to the Opinions of Eminent Experts 

Richard Marsh. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Old Prints. 


IL— A Man in the Making 

III.— Two Stripes , 

IV.— Baptism of Fire 

V.— In the T benches 

VI.— A Night Surprise for the Germans 

Illustrations by Charles Pears. 

SAVAGES, SOME MAGICAL " PLAYS " OF. Here Described for the First Time. P. Atndury Talbot. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

SEA GOBLINS, THE. From the Swedish 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson, 


Illustrations by Dudley Tennant. 


Illustrations by Sydney Ad am son. 


Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. 

STORY OF A SILLY WOMAN, THE. A Bohemian Story for Children. Retold in English by E. Dyke. 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Harold Steevens. 
. . John Foster. 
Morley Roberts. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Cleveland MoffetL 








TERRY, FRED. " My Wife and I " 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

THREE YOUNG NOBLES OF BIRGUM, THE. A Frisian Folk-Tale .. Retold by W. J. L. Kiehl. 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 

TIGER WOMEN John Bamett. 

Illustrations by Thomas Somerfield. 
TRAWLER, THE. The Story that Won a £500 Prize James B. Connolly. 

Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. 

TRENCH GAMES. As Played by Our Indian Soldiers at the Front Major C. H. Buck. 

Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 



I2 3 



Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. 

John Galsworthy. 506 

..A. Conan Doyle. 3, 176, 257, 449. 543 
F. Cunliffe-Owen. 136 

VALLEY OF FEAR, THE. A New Sherlock Holmes Story . . 

Illustrations by Frank Wiles. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 
VICTORIES ON SEA AND LAND, OUR GREATEST. The finest achievements of the British Navy 

and Army according to Expert Opinion 472 

Illustrations from Paintings. 
VIOLET BOOK, THE A.E.W. Mason. 160 

Illustrations by Frank Gillett, R.I. 

VOYAGE BY SONG, A J.E.Patterson. 615 

Illustrations by W. £. Wigtull. 


Illustrations by Gerald Leake, R.B.A. 

From Hie Russian of Leonidas Andreev. 4c 


Qri9iP^f[ffl t n(l| ONl>ONt F.NUUND, 


C^ f\r\Ci\i> Original from 




THE STRAND January, 19.5. 

MAGAZINE. VoKxIix - No - 28 9- 


Valley 0/ Fear 





Illustrated byJ&ANK WlLES 


The opening chapters of this new and thrilling Near him was found a card with the initials "V. V." 

adventure of Sherlock Holmes described the receipt by and the number "341" scrawled on it in ink, and 

Holmes of a cipher message, from which he deduces about half' way up the forearm was a curious design — 

that some devilry is intended against a man named a branded triangle inside a circle. His wedding-ring 

Douglas, a rich country gentleman living at the Manor had been removed and the ring above it replaced. 

House, Birlstone, in Sussex, and that the danger is a There is no clue to the murderer except a bloody 

pressing one. Almost as soon as he has deciphered footprint on the window-sill, and he had apparently 

the message he is visited by Inspector MacDonald, made his escape by wading across the moat. Holmes 

of Scotland Yard r who brings the news that Mr. is much struck by the fact that one of Douglas's 

Douglas has been murdered that morning. dumb-bells is missing. 

Holmes, Dr. Watson, and the inspector proceed to Cecil Barker, Douglas's most intimate friend, is 

the scene of the tragedy, where they are met by considerably flustered while being cross-examined by 

Mr. White Mason, the chief Sussex detective. * The the detectives, and confesses that Douglas had been 

murdered man had been horribly injured, while lying jealous on account of his attentions to Mrs. Douglas. 

across his chest was a curious weapon — a shot-gun Holmes ascermim from Arnes, the butler, that on 

with the barrel sawn off a foot in front of the triggers. the previous evervng Bwlcr was wearing a pair of 
Vol. xlix. — 1, Copyright, 1914, by A. Conan Doyle. 


bedroom slippers which were stained with blood, and, 
on comparing them with ths foctprints on the window* 
sill, finds that they correspond. 

Holmes gives Watson his reasons for believing that 
Mrs. Douglas and Barker know all about the murder. 
He advises the other detectives to abandon the case 
and asks them to meet him that same evening, when he 
promises they shall share everything he knows. The 

last instalment ends with the dispatch, at Holmes's 
suggestion, of the following letter to Barker: — 

" It has struck me that it is our duty to drain the 
moat, in the hope that we may find something which 
may bear upon our investigation. I have made 
arrangements, and the workmen will be at work 
early to > morrow morning diverting the stream, so 
I thought it best to explain matters beforehand" 

CHijPTER VII. {continued). 

VENING was drawing in when 
we reassembled. Holmes was 
very serious in his manner, 
myself curious, and the 
detectives obviously critical 
and annoyed. 
" Well, gentlemen," said 
my friend, gravely, "lam asking you now to 
put everything to the test with me, and you 
will judge for yourselves whether the observa- 
tions which I have made justify the conclusions 
to which I have come. It is a chill evening, 
and I do not know how long our expedition 
may last, so I beg that you will wear your 
warmest coats. It is of the first importance 
that we should be in our places before it grows 
dark, so, with your permission, we will get 
started at once." 

We passed along the outer bounds of the 
Manor House park until we came to a place 
where there was a gap in the rails which 
fenced it. Through this we slipped, and then, 
in the gathering gloom, we followed Holmes 
until we had reached a shrubbery which lies 
nearly opposite to the main door and the 
drawbridge. The Iktter had not been raised. 
Holmes crouched down behind the screen of 
laurels, and we all three followed his example. 

" Well, what are we to do now ? " asked 
MacDonald, with some gruffness. 

" Possess our souls in patience and make 
as little noise as possible," Holmes answered. 

" What are we here for at all ? I really think 
that you might treat us with more frankness." 

Holmes laughed. 

" Watson insists that I am the dramatist 
in real life," said he. " Some touch of the 
artist veils up within me and calls insistently 
for a well-staged performance. Surely our 
profession, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and 
sordid one if we did not sometimes set the 
scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt 
accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder 
— what can one make of such a denouement ? 
But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the 
clever forecast of coming events, the triumph- 
ant vindic&tion of bold theories — are these 
not the pride and the justification of our life's 
work? At the present moment you thrill 

with the glamour of the situation and the 
anticipation of the hunter. Where would be 
that thrill if I had been as definite as a time- 
table ? I only ask a little patience, Mr. Mac, 
and all will be clear to you." 

" Well, I hope the pride and justification 
and the rest of it will come before we all get 
our death of cold," said the London detective, 
with comic resignation. 

We all had good reason to join in the aspira- 
tion, for our vigil was a long and bitter one. 
Slowly the shadows darkened over the leng, 
sombre face of the old house. A cold,damp reek 
from the moat chilled us to the bones and set our 
teeth chattering. There was a single lamp over 
the gateway and a steady globe of light in the 
fatal study. Everything else was dark and still. 

" How long is this to last ? " asked the 
inspector, suddenly. " And what is it we are 
watching f or ? " 

" I have no more notion than you how long 
it is to last," Holmes answered with some 
asperity. " If criminals would always 
schedule their movements like railway trains 
it would certainly be more convenient for all 

of us. As to what it is wc Well, that's 

what we are watching for." 

As he spoke the bright yellow light in the 
study was obscured by somebody pass'ng to 
and fro before it. The laurels among which we 
lay were immediately opposite the window 
and not more than a hundred feet from it. 
Presently it was thrown open with a whining 
of hinges, and we could dimly see the dark 
outline of a man's head and shoulders looking 
out into the gloom. For some minutes he 
peered forth, in a furtive, stealthy fashion, as 
one who wishes to be assured that he is 
unobserved. Then he leaned forward, and in 
the intense silence we were aware of the soft 
lapping of agitated water. He seemed to be 
stirring up the moat with something which he 
held in his hand. Then suddenly he hauled 
something in as a fisherman lands a fish — some 
large round object which obscured the light as 
it was dragged through the open casement. 

" Now ! " cried Holmes. " Now ! " 

We were all upon our feet, staggering after 
him with our stiffened limbs, whilst he, with 

one liiteiffWHliiflfeflr" ^ 


which could make him on occasion both the 
most active and the strongest man that I 
have ever known, ran swiftly across the bridge 
and rang violently at the bell. There was the 
rasping of bolts from the other side, and the 
amazed Ames stood in the entrance. Holmes 
brushed him aside without a word and, 
followed by all of us, rushed into the room 
which had been occupied by the man whom we 
had been watching. 

The oil lamp on the table represented the 
glow which we had seen from outside. It was 
now in the hand of Cecil Barker, who held it 
towards us as we entered. Its light shone upon 
his strong, resolute, clean-shaven face and his 
menaciitg eyes. 

" What the devil is the meaning of all 
this ? " he cried. " What are you after, 
anyhow ? " 

Holmes took a swift glance round and then 
pounced upon a sodden bundle tied together 
with cord which lay where it had been thrust 
under the writing-table. 

" This is what we are after, Mr. Barker. 
This bundle, weighted with a dumb-bell, 
which you have just raised from the bottom 
of the moat." 

Barker stared at Holmes with amazement 
in his face. 

44 How in thunder came you to know any- 
thing about it ? " he asked. 
" Simply that I put it there." 
" You put it there ! You ! " 
" Perhaps I should have said ' replaced it 
there/ " said Holmes. " Yoq will remember, 
Inspector MacDonald, that I was somewhat 
struck by the absence of a dumb-bell. I drew 
your attention to it, but with the pressure of 
other events you had hardly the time to give 
it the consideration which would have enabled 
you to draw deductions from it. When water 
is near and a weight is missing it is not a very 
far-fetched supposition that something has 
been sunk in the water. The idea was at least 
worth testing, so with the help of Ames, who 
admitted me to the room, and the crook of 
Dr. Watson's umbrella, I was able last night 
to fish up and inspect this bundle. It was of 
the first importance, however, that we should 
be able to prove who placed it there. This we 
accomplished by the very obvious device of 
announcing that the moat would be dried 
to-morrow, which had, of course, the effect that 
whoever had hidden the bundle would most 
certainly withdraw it the moment that darkness 
enabled him to do so. We have no fewer than 
four witnesses as to who it was who took 
advantage of the opportunity, and so, Mr. 
Barker, I think the word lies now with you." 

Sherlock Holmes put the sopping bundle 
upon the table beside the lamp and undid 
the cord which bound it. From within he 
extracted a dumb-bell, which he tossed down 
to its fellow in the corner. Next he drew forth 
a pair of boots. " American, as you perceive," 
he remarked, pointing to the toes. Then he 
laid upon the table a long, deadly, sheathed 
knife. Finally he unravelled a bundle of 
clothing, comprising a complete set of under- 
clothes, socks, a grey tweed suit, and a short 
yellow overcoat. 

" The clothes are commonplace," remarked 
Holmes, " save only the overcoat, which is 
full of suggestive touches." He held it 
tenderly towards the light, whilst his long, 
thin fingers flickered over it. " Here, as you 
perceive, is the inner pocket prolonged into 
the lining in such a fashion as to give ample 
space for the truncated fowling-piece. The 
tailor's tab is on the neck — Neale, Outfitter, 
Vermissa, U.S.A. I have spent an instructive 
afternoon in the rector's library, and have 
enlarged my knowledge by adding the fact 
that Vermissa is a flourishing little town at 
the head of one of the best-known coal and 
iron valleys in the United States. I have some 
recollection, Mr. Barker, that you associated 
the coal districts with Mr. Douglas's first wife, 
and it would surely not be too far-fetched an 
inference that the V.V. upon the card by the 
dead body might stand for Vermissa Valley, 
or that this very valley, which sends forth 
emissaries of murder, may be that Valley of 
Fear of which we have heard. So much is 
fairly clear. And now, Mr. Barker, I seem 
to be standing rather in the way of your 

It was a sight to see Cpcil Barker's expres- 
sive face during this exposition of the great 
detective. Anger, amazement, consternation, 
and indecision swept over it in turn. Finally 
he took refuge in a somewhat acid irony. 

" You know such a lot, Mr. Holmes, perhaps 
you had better tell us some more," he sneered. 

" I have no doubt that I could tell you a 
great deal more, Mr. Barker, but it would 
come with a better grace from you." 

" Oh, you think so, do you ? Well, all I 
can say is that if there's any secret here it is 
not my secret, and I am not the man to give 
it away." 

" Well, if you take that line, Mr. Barker," 
said the inspector, quietly, " we must just 
keep you in sight until we have the warrant 
and can hold you." 

" You can do what you damn please about 
that," said Barker, defiantly. 

The proceedings seemeci to kive come to a 





definite end so far as he was concerned, for 
one had only to look at that granite face to 
realize that no peine forte et dure would ever 
force him to 'plead against his will. The dead- 
lock was broken, however, by a woman's voice. 
Mrs. Douglas had been standing listening at 
the half-opened door, and now she entered 
the room. 

" You have done enough for us, Cecil," 
said she. " Whatever comes of it in the 
future, you have done enough." 

" Enough and more than enough," re- 
marked Sherlock Holmes, gravely. " I have 
every sympathy with you, madam, and I 
should strongly urge you to have some confi- 
dence in the common sense of our jurisdiction 
and to take the police voluntarily into your 
complete confidence. It may be that I am 
myself at fault for not following up the hint 
which you conveyed to me through my friend, 
Dr. Watson, but at that time I had every 
reason to believe that you were directly con- 
cerned in the crime. Now I am assured that 
this is not so. At the same time, there is 
much that is unexplained, and I should 
strongly recommend that you ask Mr. 
Douglas to tell us his own story." 

Mrs. Douglas gave a cry of astonishment 
at Holmes's words. The detectives and I 
must have echoed it, when we were aware of 
a man who seemed to have emerged from the 
wall, and who advanced now from the gloom 
of the corner in which he had appeared. Mrs. 
Douglas turned, and in an instant her arms 
were round him. Barker had seized his out- 
stretched hand. 

" It's best this way, Jack," his wife re- 
peated. " I am sure that it is best." 

" Indeed yes, Mr. Douglas," said Sherlock 
Holmes. 4 ' I am sure that you will find it best." 

The man stood blinking at us with the 
dazed look of one who comes irom the dark 
into the light. It was a remarkable face — 
bold grey eyes, a strong, short-clipped, grizzled 
moustache, a square, projecting chin, and a 
humorous mouth. He took a good look at us 
all, and then, to my amazement, he advanced 
to me and handed me a bundle of paper. 

11 I've heard of you," said he, in a voice 
which was not quite English and not quite 
American, but was altogether mellow and 
pleasing. " You are the historian of this 
bunch. Well, Dr. Watson, you've never had 
such a story as that pass through your hands 
before, and I'd lay my last dollar on that. 
Tell it your own way, but there are the facts, 
and you can't miss the public so long as you 
have those. I've been cooped up two days, 
and I've spent the daylight hours — as much 

daylight as I could get in that rat-trap — in 
putting the thing into words. You're wel- 
come to them — you and your public. There's 
the story of the Valley of Fear." 

" That's the past,' Mr. Douglas," said 
Sherlock Holmes, quietly. " What we desire 
now is to hear your story of the present." 

" You'll have it, sir," said Douglas, " Can 
I smoke as I taik ? Well, thank you, Mr. 
Holmes; you're a smoker yourself, if I re- 
member right, and you'll guess what it is to 
be sitting for two days with tobacco in your 
pocket and afraid that the smell will give you 
away." He leaned against the mantelpiece 
and sucked at the cigar which Holmes had 
handed hin,. " I've heard of you, Mr. 
Holmes ; I never guessed that I would meet 
you. But before you are through with that " 
— he nodded at my papers — " you will say 
I've brought you something fresh." 

Inspector MacDonald had been staring at 
the new-comer with the greatest amazement. 

" Well, this fairly beats me ! " he cried at 
last. " If you are Mr, John Douglas, of Birl- 
stone Manor, then whose death have we been 
investigating for these two days, and where 
in the world have you sprung from now ? 
You seemed to me to come out of the floor 
like a Jack-in-a-box." 

" Ah, Mr. Mac," said Holmes, shaking a 
reproving forefinger, " you would not read 
that excellent local compilation which de- 
scribed the concealment of King Charles. 
People did not hide in those days without 
reliable hiding-places, and the hiding-place 
that has once been used may be again. I 
had persuaded myself that we should find Mr. 
Douglas under this roof." 

" And how long have you been playing 
this trick upon us, Mr. Holmes ? " said the 
inspector, angrily. " How long have you 
allowed us to waste ourselves upon a search 
that you knew to be an absurd one ? " 

" Not one instant, my dear Mr. Mac. 
Only last night did I form my views of the 
case. As they could not be put to the proof 
until this evening, I invited you and your 
colleague to take a holiday for the day. 
Pray, what more could I do ? When I found 
the suit of clothes in the moat it at once 
became apparent to me that the body we had 
found could not have been the body of Mr. 
John Douglas at all, but must be that of the 
bicyclist from Tunbridge Wells. No other 
conclusion was possible. Therefore I had to 
determine where Mr. John Douglas himself 
could be, and the balance of probability was 
that, with the connivance of his wife and his 
friend, he was concealed in a house which had 




such conveniences for a fugitive, and awaiting 
quieter times, when he could make his final 
escape.' ' 

" Well, you figured it out about right," 
said Mr. Douglas, approvingly. " I thought 
Fd dodge your British law, for I was not sure 
how I stood under it, and also I saw my 
chance to throw these hounds once for all off 
my track. Mind you, from first to last I have 
done nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing 
that I would not do again, but you'll judge 
that for yourselves when I tell you my story. 
Never mind warning me, inspector ; I'm ready 
to stand pat upon the truth. 

" I'm not going to begin at the beginning. 
That's all there " — he indicated ny bundle of 
papers — " and a mighty queer yarn you'll 
find it. It all comes down to this : that there 
are some men that have good cause to hate 
me and would give their last dollar to know 
that they had got me. So long as I am alive 
and they are alive, there is no safety in this 
world for me. They hunted me from Chicago 
to California ; then they chased me out of 
America; but when I married and settled 
down in this quiet spot I thought my last 
years were going to be peaceable. I never 
explained to my wife how things were. Why 
should I pull her into it ? She would never 
have a quiet moment again, but would be 
always imagining trouble. I fancy she knew 
something, for I may have dropped a word 
here or a word there — but until yesterday, 
after you gentlemen had seen her, she never 
knew the rights of the matter. She told you 
all she knew, and so did Barker here, for on 
the night when this thing happened there was 
mighty little time for explanations. She 
knows everything now, and I would have been 
a wiser man if I had t Id her sooner. But it was 
a hard question, dear " —he took her hand for an 
instant in his own — " and I acted for the best. 

" Well, gentlemen, the day before these 
happenings I was over in Tunbridge Wells 
and I got a glimpse of a man in the street. It 
was only a glimpse, but I have a quick eye for 
these things, and I never doubted who it was. 
It was the worst enemy I had among them 
all — one who has been after me like a hungry 
wolf after a caribou all these years. I knew 
there was trouble coming, and I came home 
and made ready for it. I guessed Fd fight 
through it all right on my own. There was 
a time when my luck was the talk of the 
whole United States. I never doubted that 
it would be with me still. 

" I was on my guard all that next day and 
never went out into the park. It's as well, or 
he'd have had the drop on me with that buck- 

shot gun of his before ever I could draw on 
him. After the bridge was up — my mind was 
always more restful when that bridge was up 
in the evenings — I put the thing clear out of 
my head. I never figured on his getting into 
the house and waiting for me. But when I 
made my round in my dressing-gown, as my 
habit was, I had no sooner entered the study 
than I scented danger. I guess when a man 
has had dangers in his life — and I've had 
more than most in my time — there is a kind 
of sixth sense that waves the red flag. I saw 
the signal clear enough, and yet I couldn't 
tell you why. Next instant I spotted a boot 
under the window curtain, and then I saw why 
plain enough. 

" I'd just the one candle that was in my 
hand, but there was a good light from the hall 
lamp through the open door. I put down the 
candle and jumped for a hammer that I'd 
left on the mantel. At the same moment he 
sprang at me. I saw the glint of a knife and 
I lashed at him with the hammer. I got him 
somewhere, for the knife tinkled down on the 
floor. He dodged round the table as quick as 
an eel, and a moment later he'd got his gun 
from under his coat. I heard him cock it, but 
I had got hold of it before he could fire. I had 
it by the barrel, and we wrestled for it all ends 
up for a minute or more. It was death to the 
man that lost his grip. He never lost his grip, 
but he got it butt downwards for a moment 
too long. Maybe it was I that pulled the 
trigger. Maybe we just jolted it off between 
us. Anyhow, he got both barrels in the face, 
and there I was, staring down at all that was 
left of Ted Baldwin. Fd recognized him in the 
township and again when he sprang for me, 
but his own mother wouldn't recognize him 
as I saw him then. I'm used to rough work, 
but I fairly turned sick at the sight of him. 

" I was hanging on to the side of the table 
when Barker came hurrying down. I heard 
my wife coming, and I ran to the door and 
stopped her. It was no sight for a woman. 
I promised Fd come to her soon. I said a 
word or two to Barker — he took it all in at a 
glance — and we waited for the rest to come 
along. But there was no sign of them. Then 
we understood that they could hear nothing, 
and that all that had happened was only 
known to ourselves. 

" It was at that instant that the idea came 
to me. I was fairly dazzled by the brilliancy 
of it. The man's sleeve had slipped up and 
there was the branded mark of the Lodge 
upon his forearm. See here." 

The man whom wi knew as Douglas 
turned up his own. coat and cuff to show a 


)riqinal from 

"I TRARI> ™, BUT I HAD GOT Hj^^AC.Ijt rWm |f*fi|Pfl?T D 


YaLxlU.— 2- 



brown triangle within a circle exactly like 
that which we had seen upon the dead man. 

" It was the sight of that which started me 
on to it. I seemed to see it all clear at a glance. 
There was his height and hair and figure 
about the same as my own. No one could 
swear to his face, poor devil ! I brought down 
this suit of clothes, and in a quarter of an 
hour Barker and I had put my dressing-gown 
on him and he lay as you found him. We tied 
all his things into a bundle, and I weighted 
them with the only weight I could find and 
slung them through the window. The card he 
had meant to lay upon my body was lying 
beside his own. My rings were put on his 
finger, but when it came to the wedding-ring " 
— he held out his muscular hand — " you can 
see for yourselves that I had struck my limit. 
I have not moved it since the day I was 
married, and it would have taken a file to get 
it off. I don't know, anyhow, that I would 
have cared to part with it,but if I had wanted to 
I couldn't. So w« just had to leave that detail to 
take care of itself. On the other hand, I brought 
a bit of plaster down and put it where I am 
wearing one myself at this instant. You slipped 
up there, Mr. Holmes, clever as you are, for if 
you had chanced to take off that plaster you 
would have found no cut underneath it. 

" Well, that was the situation. If I could 
lie low for a while and then get away where 
I would be joined by my wife, we would 
have a chance at last of living at peace for 
the rest of our lives. These devils would 
give me no rest so long as I was above- 
ground, but if they saw in the papers that 
Baldwin had got his man there would be an 
end of all my troubles. I hadn't much time 
to make it clear to Barker and to my wife, 
but they understood enough to be able to 
help me. I knew all about this hiding-place, 
so did Ames, but it never entered his head to 
connect it with the matter. I retired into 
it, and it was up to Barker to do the rest. 

" I guess you can fill in for yourselves what 
he did. He opened the window and made 

the mark on the sill to give an idea of how 
the murderer escaped. It was a tall order, 
that, but as the bridge was up there was no 
other way. Then, when everything was fixed, 
he rang the bell for all he was worth. What 
happened afterwards you know — ajid so, 
gentlemen, you can do what you please, but 
I've told you the truth and the whole truth, 
so help me, God ! What I ask you now is, 
how do I stand by the English law ? " 

There was a silence, which was broken by 
Sherlock Holmes. 

" The English law is, in the main, a just 
law. You will get no worse than your deserts 
from it. But I would ask you how did this 
man know that you lived here, or how to get 
into your house, or where to hide to get you ? " 

" I know nothing of this." 

Holmes's face was very white and grave. 

" The story is not over yet, I fear," said he. 
" You may find worse dangers than the 
English law, or even than your enemies from 
America. I see trouble before you, Mr. 
Douglas. You'll take my advice and still be 
on your guard." 

And now, my long-suffering readers, I will 
ask you to come away with me for a time, 
far from the Sussex Manor House of Birl- 
stone, and far also from the year of grace in 
which we made our eventful journey which 
ended with the strange story of the man who 
had been known as John Douglas. I wish 
you to journey back some twenty years in 
time, and westward some thousands of miles 
in space, that I may lay before you a singular 
and a terrible narrative — so singular and so 
terrible that you may find it hard to believe 
that, even as I tell it, even so did it occur. Do 
not think that I intrude one story before 
another is finished. As you read on you will 
find that this is not so. And when I have 
detailed those distant events and you have 
solved this mystery of the past we shall meet 
once more in those rooms in Baker Street 
where this, like so many other wonderful 
happenings, will find its end. 






It was the fourth of February in the year 
1875. It had been a severe winter, and the 
snow lay deep in the gorges of the 
Gilmerton Mountains. The steam plough had, 
however, kept the rail - track open, and 
the evening train which connects the long 

line of coal-mining and iron-working settle- 
ments was slowly groaning its way up the 
steep gradients which lead from Stagville on 
the plain to Vermissa, the central township 
which lies at the head of the Vermissa Valley. 
From this point the track sweeps downwards 
to Barton's Crossing Helmdale, and the 
purely agricultural county of Merton. It was 



a single-track railroad, but at every siding, 
and they were numerous, long lines of trucks 
piled with coal and with iron ore told of the 
hidden wealth which had brought a rude 
population and a bustling life to this most 
desolate corner of the United States of 

For desolate it was. Little could the first 
pioneer who had traversed it have ever 
imagined that the fairest prairies and the 
most lush water-pastures were valueless com- 
pared with this gloomy land of black crag and 
tangled forest. Above the dark and often 
scarcely penetrable woods upon their sides, 
the high, bare crowns of the mountains, white 
snow and jagged rock, towered upon either 
flank, leaving a long, winding, tortuous valley 
in the centre. Up this the little train was 
slowly crawling. 

Ti.e oil lamps had just been lit in the leading 
passenger-car, a long, bare carriage in which 
some twenty or thirty people were seated. 
The greater number of these were workmen 
returning from their day's toil in the lower 
portion of the valley. At least a dozen, by 
their grimed faces and the safety lanterns 
which they carried, proclaimed themselves 
as miners. These sat smoking in a group, 
and conversed in low voices, glancing occa- 
sionally at two men on the opposite side of 
the car, whose uniform and badges showed 
them to be policemen. Several women of 
the labouring class, and one or two travellers 
who might have been small local store- 
keepers, made up the rest of the company, 
with the exception of one young man in 
a corner by himself. It is with this man that 
we are concerned. Take a good look at him, 
for he is worth it. 

He is a fresh-complexioned, middle-sized 
young man, not far, one would guess, from 
his thirtieth year. He has large, shrewd, 
humorous grey eyes which twinkle inquiringly 
from time to time as he looks round through 
his spectacles at the people about him. 
It is easy to see that he is of a sociable and 
possibly simple disposition, anxious to be 
friendly to all men. Anyone could pick him 
at once as gregarious in his habits and com- 
municative in his nature, with a quick wit 
and a ready smile. And yet the man who 
studied him more closely might discern a 
certain firmness of jaw and grim tightness 
about the lips which would warn him that 
there were depths beyond, and that this 
pleasant, brown-haired young Irishman might 
conceivably leave his mark for good or evil 
upon any society to which he was introduced. 
Having made one or two tentative remarks 

to the nearest miner, and received only short 
gruff replies, the traveller resigned himself to 
uncongenial silence, staring moodily out of 
the window at the fading landscape. It was 
not a cheering prospect. Through the grow- 
ing gloom there pulsed the red glow of the 
furnaces on the sides of the hills. Great heaps 
of slag and dumps of cinders loomed up 
on each side, with the high shafts of the 
collieries towering above them. Huddled 
groups of mean wooden houses, the windows 
of which were beginning to outline themselves 
in light, were scattered here and there along 
the line, and the frequent halting-places were 
crowded with their swarthy inhabitants. The 
iron and coal valleys of the Vermissa district 
were no resorts for the leisured or the cultured. 
Everywhere there were stern signs qf the 
crudest battle of life, the rude work to be 
done, and the rude, strong workers who 
did it. 

The young traveller gazed out into this 
dismal country with a face of mingled 
repulsion and interest, which showed that the 
scene was new to him. At intervals he drew 
from his pocket a bulky letter to which he 
referred, and on the margins of which he 
scribbled some notes. Once from the back 
of his waist he produced something which one 
would hardly have expected to find in the 
possession of so mild-mannered a man. It 
was a navy revolver of the largest size. As 
he turned it slantwise to the light, the glint 
upon the rims of the copper shells within the 
drum showed that it was fully loaded. He 
quickly restored it to his secret pocket, but 
not before it had been observed by a working 
man who had seated himself upon the adjoin- 
ing bench. 

" Halloa, mate ! " said he. " You seem 
heeled and ready." 

The young man smiled with an air of 

" Yes," said he ; " we need them sometimes 
in the place I come from." 

" And where may that be ? " 

" I'm last from Chicago." 

" A stranger in these parts ? " 


" You may find you need it here," said the 

" Ah ! Is that so ? " The young man seemed 

" Have you heard nothing of doings here- 
abouts ? " 

" Nothing out of the way." 

u Why, I thought the country was full 
of it. You'll hear quick enough. What made 
you corne here qh OF MICHIGAN 



" I heard there was always work for a 
willing man." 

" Are vou one of the Labour Union ? " 

" Sure." 

," Then you'll get your job, I guess. Have 
you any friends ? " 

" Not yet, but I have the means of making 

" How's that, then ? " 

" I am one of the Ancient Order of Free- 
men. There's no town without a lodge, and 
where there is a lodge I'll find my friends." 

The remark had a singular effect upon his 
companion. He glanced round suspiciously 
at the others in the car. The miners were 
still whispering among themselves. The two 
police officers were dozing. He came across, 
seated himself close to the young traveller, 
and held out his hand. 

" Put it there," he said. 

A hand-grip passed between the two. 

" I see you speak the truth. But it's well 
to make certain." 

He raised his right hand to his right eye- 
brow. The traveller at once raised his left 
hand to his left eyebrow. 

" Dark nights are unpleasant," said the 

" Yes, for strangers to travel," the other 

" That's good enough. I'm Brother Scan- 
Ian, Lodge 341, Vermissa Valley. Glad to 
see you in these parts." 

" Thank you. I'm Brother John McMurdo, 
Lodge 29, Chicago. Bodymaster, J. H. Scott. 
But I am in luck to meet a brother so early." 

" Well, there are plenty of us about. 
You won't find the Order more flourishing 
anywhere in the States than right here in 
Vermissa Valley. But we could do with 
some lads like you. I can't understand a 
spry man of the Labour Union finding no 
work to do in Chicago." 

" I found plenty of work to do," said 

" Then why did you leave ? " 

McMurdo nodded towards the policemen 
and smiled. 

" I guess those chaps would be glad to 
know," he said. 

Scanlan groaned sympathetically. 

" In trouble ? " he asked, in a whisper. 

" Deep." 

" A penitentiary job ? " 

" And the rest." 

" Not a killing ? " 

" It's early days to talk of such things," 
said McMurdo, with the air of a man who had 
been surprised into saying more than he 

intended. " I've my own good reason for 
leaving Chicago, and let that be enough for 
you. Who are you that you should take it 
on yourself to ask such things ? " 

His grey eyes gleamed with sudden and 
dangerous anger from behind his glasses. 

" All right, mate. No offence meant. The 
boys will think none the worse of you what- 
ever you may have done. Where are you 
bound for now ? " 

" To Vermissa." 

" That's the third halt down the line. 
Where are you staying ? " 

McMurdo took out an envelope and held 
it close to the murky oil lamp. 

" Here is the address — Jacob Shafter, 
Sheridan Street. It's a boarding-house that was 
recommended by a man I knew in Chicago." 

" Well, I don't know it, but Vermissa is 
out of my beat. I live at Hobson's Patch, 
and that's here where we are drawing up. 
But, say, there's one bit of advice I'll give 
you before we part. If you're in trouble in 
Vermissa, go straight to the Union House and 
see Boss McGinty. He is the bodymaster 
of Vermissa Lodge, and nothing can happen 
in these parts unless Black Jack McGinty 
wants it. So long, mate. Maybe we'll meet 
in lodge one of these evenings. But mind 
my words ; if you are in trouble go to Boss 

Scanlan descended, and McMurdo was left 
once again to his thoughts. Night had now 
fallen, and the flames of the frequent furnaces 
were roaring and leaping in the d. rkness. 
Against their lurid background dark figures 
were bending and straining, twisting and 
turning, with the motion of winch or of wind- 
lass, to the rhythm of an eternal clank and roar. 

" I guess hell must look something like 
that," said a voice. 

McMurdo turned and saw that one of the 
policemen had shifted in his seat and was 
staring out into the fiery waste. 

" For that matter," said the other police- 
man, " I allow that hell must be something 
like that. If there are worse devils down 
yonder than some we could name, it's more 
than I'd expect. I guess you are new to 
this part, young man ? " 

" Well, what if I am ? " McMurdo answered, 
in a surly voice. 

" Just this, mister; that I should advise 
you to be careful in choosing your friends. 
I don't think I'd begin with Mike Scanlan or 
his gang if I were you." 

" What in thunder is it to you who are my 
friends ? " roared McMurdo, in a voice which 

brou #fefT'rWWrffef rriage round t0 





witness the altercation. " Did I ask you 
for your advice, or did you think me such 
a sucker that I couldn^t move without it? 
You speak when you are spoken to, and by 
the Lord you'd have to wait a long time if 
it was me ! ** 

He thrust out his face, and grinned at the 
patrolmen like a snarling dog. 

The two policemen, heavy , good-natured 
men, were taken aback by the extraordinary 
vehemence with which their friendly advances 
had been rejected* 

" No offence, stranger/' said one, "It was 
a warning for your own good, seeing that you 
are j by your own showing, new to the place," 

** I'm new to the place, hut I'm not new to 
you and your kind/' cried McMurdo, in a cold 
fury, M I guess you're the same in all places, 
shoving your advice in when nobodv asks 
for it" 

*' Maybe we'll see more of you before very 
long/' said one of the patrolmen, with a grin. 
I( You're a real hand-picked one, if I am 
a judge, 1 ' 

'■ I was thinking the same/' remarked the 
other. " I guess we may meet again." 

" I'm not afraid of you, and don't you 
think it/' cried McMurdo, " My name's 
Jack McMurdo — see ? If you want me you'll 
find me at Jacob Shatters, at Sheridan Street, 
Vermissa, so I'm not hiding from you, am I ? 
Day or night I dare to look the like of you in 
the face. Don't make any mistake about 

There was a murmur of sympathy and 
admiration from the miners at the dauntless 
demeanour of the new-comer, while the two 
policemen shrugged their shoulders and 
renewed a conversation between themselves, 
A few minutes later the train ran into the 
ill-lit depot and there was a general clearing, 
for Vermissa was far the largest township 
on the line. McMurdo picked up his leather 
grip-sack; and was about to start off into the 
darkness when one of the miners accosted 

" By gosh, mate, vou know how to speak 
to tHitf"J fcc5fe5tT'fi£i fsat?fHC HNG.^J-J voice of awe, 



" It was grand to hear you. Let me carry 
your grip-sack and show you the road. I'm 
passing Shafter's on the way to my own 

There was a chorus of friendly " Good 
nights " from the other miners as they passed 
from the platform. Before ever he had set 
foot in it, McMurdo the turbulent had become 
a character in Vermissa. 

The country had been a place of terror, but 
the township was in its way even more 
depressing. Down that long valley there was 
at least a certain gloomy grandeur in the huge 
fires and the clouds of drifting smoke, while 
the strength and industry of man found 
fitting monuments in the hills which he had 
spilled by the side of his monstrous excava- 
tions. But the town showed a dead level 
of mean ugliness and squalor. The broad 
street was churned up by the traffic into a 
horrible rutted paste of muddy snow. The 
side-walks were narrow and uneven. The 
numerous gas-lamps served only to show more 
clearly a long line of wooden houses, each 
with its veranda facing the street, unkempt 
and dirty. As they approached the centre 
of the town the scene was brightened by a 
row of well-lit stores, and even more by a 
cluster of liquor saloons and gaming-houses, 
in which the miners spent their hard-earned 
but generous wages. 

" That's the Union House," said the guide, 
pointing to one saloon which rose almost 
to the dignity of being an hotel. " Jack 
McGinty is the Boss there." 

" What sort of a man is he ? " asked 

" What ! Have you never heard of the 
Boss ? " 

" How could I have heard of him when you 
know that I am a stranger in these parts ? " 

" Well, I thought his name was known 
right across the Union. It's been in the papers 
often enough." 

" What for ? " 

" Well " — the miner lowered his voice — 
" over the affairs." 

" What, affairs?" 

" Good Lord, mister, you are queer goods, 
if I may say it without offence. There's 
only one set of affairs that you'll hear of in 
these parts, and that's the affairs of the 

" Why, I seem to have read of the Scowrers 
in Chicago. A gang of murderers, are thev 

" Hush, on your life ! " cried the miner, 
standing still in his alarm, and gazing in 
amazement at his companion. " Man, you 

won't live long in these parts if you speak in 
the open street like that. Many a man has 
had the life beaten out of him for less." 

" Well, I know nothing about them. It's 
only what I have read." 

" And I'm not saying that you have not 
read the truth." The man looked nervously 
round him as he spoke, peering into the 
shadows as if he feared to see some lurking 
danger. " If killing is murder, then God 
knows there is murder and to spare. But 
don't you dare to breathe the name of Jack 
McGinty in connection with it, stranger, for 
every whisper goes back to him, and he is 
not one that is likely to let it pass. Now ; 
that's the house you're after — that one 
standing back from the street. You'll find 
old Jacob Shafter that runs it as honest a 
man as lives in this township." 

" I thank you," said McMurdo, and shaking 
hands with his new acquaintance he plodded, 
his grip-sack in his hand, up the path which 
led to the dwelling-house, at the door of which 
he gave a resounding knock. It was opened 
at once by someone very different from what 
he had expected. 

It was a woman, young and singularly 
beautiful. She was of the Swedish type, 
blonde and fair-haired, with the piquant 
contrast of a pair of beautiful dark eyes, with 
which she surveyed the stranger with surprise 
and a pleasing embarrassment which brought 
a wave of colour over her pale face. Framed 
in the bright light of the open doorway, it 
seemed to McMurdo that he had never seen 
a more beautiful picture, the more attractive 
for its contrast with the sordid and gloomy 
surroundings. A lovely violet growing upon 
one of those black slag-heaps of the mines 
would not have seemed more surprising. So 
entranced was he that he stood staring with- 
out a word, and it was she who broke the 

" I thought it was father," said she, with 
a pleasing little touch of a Swedish accent. 
" Did you come to see him ? He is down 
town. I expect him back every minute." 

McMurdo continued to gaze at her in open 
admiration until her eyes dropped in ccn- 
fusion before this masterful visitor. 

" No, miss," he said at last; "I'm in no 
hurry to see him. But your house was 
recommended to me for board. I thought 
it might suit me, and now I know it will." 

" You are quick to make up your mind," 
said she, with a smile. 

" Anyone but a blind man could do as 
much," the other answered. 

She laughed at the compliment. 



u Come right in } sir/* she said* " I'm Hiss 
Ettie Shafter, Mr. Shafter\s daughter. My 
mother's dead, and 1 run the house. You 
can sit down by the stove in the front room 
until father comes along. Ah, here he 
is ; so you can fix things with him right 

A heavy , elderly man came plodding up 
the path. In a few words McMurdo explained 
his business. A man of the name of Murphy 
had given him the address in Chicago. He 

in turn had had it from someone cLsi\ Old 
Shalter was quite ready. The stranger made 
no bones about terms, agreed at once to every 
condition 3 and was apparently fairly flush 
of money. For twelve dollars a week, paid 
in advance, he was to have board and lodging. 
So it was that McMurdo, the self-confessed 
fugitive from justice, took up his abode under 
the roof of the Shatters, the first step which 
was to lead to so long and dark a train of 
events, ending in a far distant land* 

(To be continued.) 





THIS game, which is on sale every* 
where, is one which -we strongly 
recommend every reader of this 
magazine to purchase. While easy to 
learn* it affords an unlimited fund of 
entertainment* aa well as endless 
opportunities for ingenuity and skill, 
ft is played by two opponents, representing the Allies and the Germans, over a map cf the actual 
territory of the War* and the pieces consist of three kinds — 


each with their separate moves and possibilities, it being the object of the player to capture the 
position of the enemy* s capital. 

A letter received from a well-known Colonel says : " 1 think your War Game 


I bought one on Saturday and fan to-day to give away- It is a combination of Draughts, Chess, 
and the War Game which must interest all who try it-" 

The game, like Draughts* Chess* and Bridge, may also give rise to most interesting problem- 
positions* such, for instance, as 


Perhaps some ol our reader* may like to invent problems of this kind, and, if so, we shall 
be E^ to ** ;c tnem * and use ai *d P a y f° r an Y that may be found suitable. 

The "Strand" War Game tan he obtained from your Hoaks/a/I f Bookshop 
Newsagent \ or Stationer^ or post free (United Kingdom) :/ij from 

GEORGE NBWNES, Limited, 8-11, Southai^lMFSt^FSVfiU&^tlondon, W.C. 

The Nations Heroes. 

^fliere Our Great Sailors and Soldiers Were 



RITISH patriotism is not a 
matter of geography, as recent 
events have so splendidly 
shown. It flourishes east and 
west, north and south, 
throughout the United King- 
dom. But the form in which 
this patriotism has expressed itself — states- 
manship, philanthropy, literature, naval and 
military achievement — has varied much with 
the social circumstances and characteristics 
of different parts of the country. With a great 
war in progress, naval and military achieve- 
ment must naturally loom largest of all, 
and at the present moment a singular interest 
belongs to the comparative record of the 
different parts of the kingdom in contributing 
the men who by their valour and genius on 
the sea and in the field have secured our 
national safety and progress. We exclude 
living men from our review, because to select 
from contemporaries those who will share 
the laurels of the mighty dead would be too 
invidious a task. We do not suppose there 
will be absolute unanimity on the part of 
our readers as to every one of the hundred 
and forty-seven sailors and soldiers we have 
placed upon the roll of honour. There are 
doubtless those who would omit or add a name 
here and there. But on the whole the names, 
it will probably be agreed, are those of our 
most distinguished sailors and soldiers accord- 
ing to historic records. 

Taking first the four countries into which 
the United Kingdom is divided, we find that 
England gave birth to no fewer than one 
hundred of our naval and military heroes. 

Wales has apparently been so devoted to 
the arts of peace since the days when Llewelyn 
and Glendower so valiantly contested 
England's power that only two of her sons 
have won eminence in war — Sir Thomas 
Picton and Admiral Thomas Mathews. 
General Picton, Wellington's brilliant lieu- 
tenant in the Peninsular campaign, who was 
killed at Waterloo, was born at the village of 

Poyston, near Haverfordwest, Pembroke- 
shire. The inclusion of Mathews in our list 
is a little doubtful perhaps, because after 
winning renown as captain in several actions 
with the French (1707-1718) he failed to 
justify his appointment to the command of 
the Mediterranean Fleet in 1742, and was 
relieved of his post. But we have given Wales 
the benefit of the doubt. It is interesting 
to note that the county of Carnarvon is 
credited with the birthplace of the redoubt- 
able Llewelyn, the same county which has 
produced Wales's greatest political leader in 
the person of Mr. Lloyd George. 

Scotland contributes twenty-four of our 
greatest soldiers and sailors, and Ireland 
sixteen. It is very probable that if con- 
temporaries were taken into account, Ireland's 
contribution would be relatively much larger. 

On England's roll of honour there are 
sixty-four sailors and thirty-six soldiers. 
These proportions as between the two services 
are reversed as regards Ireland, whose names 
include only six sailors as compared with ten 
soldiers. In Scotland there is an almost 
equal division — eleven sailors and thirteen 

It must be added that one of our national 
heroes first saw the light in the island 
of Guernsey and two in far - off Ceylon. 
Admiral Lord de Saumarez, the second in 
command at the Battle of the Nile and the 
victor of Algeciras, was born at St. Peter 
Port, whilst Sir Henry Lawrence, the gallant 
defender of Lucknow, and Lord Napier of 
Magdala, the commander-in-chief of the 
expedition against Abyssinia, happened to 
first see the light at Colombo. Lord Roberts, 
too, was born in India — at Cawnpore. 

As between the urban and rural com- 
munities throughout the kingdom the balance 
would appear to be much in favour of the 
latter. Among the great cities only London, 
Edinburgh, Dublin, Glasgow, Bristol, and 
Newcastle-orr-Tyno appear in our illustrative 
maps. Louden has seventeen names, nine 



sailors and eight soldiers, to its credit ; 
Dublin three, all soldiers ; Glasgow two, both 
soldiers ; Newcastle two, both sailors ; and 
Bristol one sailor. London's list, it will be 
seen, includes such great names as Henry V., 
Napier, and Gordon, with others that do not 
fill so large a place in the national imagina- 
tion, but in their day and generation were 
enthusiastically given the hero's laurels. 
Dublin can claim the greatest military name 
of all in Wellington, having worthy com- 
panions in those of Nicholson, a hero of the 
Indian Mutiny, and Wolseley, whose great 
career so recently ended. 

Glasgow can take an equal pride in its 
two great soldiers, Sir John Moore, the 
immortal hero of Corunna, and Lord 
Clyde, perhaps better known as Sir 
Colin Campbell, who* may almost be 
regarded as the saviour of British 
rule in India from the danger 
of the Mutiny. Newcastle 
on-Tyne has shown its 
appreciation of the dis- 
tinction gained 
by it as the birth- 
place of Lord 
Colling wood 
by giving the 
name of the 
great admiral 
to one of its 
streets, and 
there are 
many of its 
citizens who 
would not 
willingly for- 
get that it was 

also the birthplace of Admiral Bullen, one 
of the greatest of Nelson's captains. The 
fame of Admiral Penn in the world's annals 
has been eclipsed by that of the Quaker 
statesman of the same name who founded 
Pennsylvania. But Bristol, at least, as his 
birthplace, should be glad to remember that 
Sir William Penn, apart from his naval 
services to the Parliament in its struggle with 
Charles I., gave valuable assistance at three 
important victories over the Dutch fleet. 

Of the English counties, Devon takes the 
first place with ten names. Two of the 
number, moreover, Drake and Marlborough, 
are of the finest lustre. Captain Scott, 
the most recent addition to Devon's 
illustrious dead, is well worthy of 
the company of Drake, Marl- 
borough, Raleigh, and Hawkins. 
Of the part taken by Sir Redvers 
Buller in the South African War 
there will doubtless always be 
two opinions, but the services 
he rendered the nation be- 
fore this event were snch 
as to give unques- 
tioned honour to his 
native county. 
With its long 
stretch of coast 
north and south, 
it is not surpris- 
ing that seven of 

;iGhG^>lkNn w 

SEE M0P 2 


Original from 


Vol *IU. —3* 



Avon's heroes should be sailors, but what is 
to be said of the fact that the adjacent county 
of Cornwall, even more maritime in character, 
should have produced only three sailors of 
enduring reputation ? — Sir Richard Grenville, 
whose fame rests on the single exploit, 
magnificent though it was, which Tennyson 
has commemorated in his " Ballad of The 
Revenge " ; Admiral Boscawen (afterwards 
Lord Falmouth, in honour of his native place), 
who won several gallant actions in different 
parts of the world during the first half of the 
eighteenth century ; and Admiral Sir Thomas 
Graves, who assisted at victories achieved by 
Hood and Rodney, and was second in com- 
mand to Lord Nelson at the Battle of 

Kent comes second to Devon with seven 
names, and this position is, perhaps, even 
more remarkable, considering that it is much 
smaller in area and population. The greatest 
of these names is unquestionably Wolfe, the 
hero who fell at Quebec in the moment of 
victory, who was a native of the little town of 
Westerham. Sir Philip Sidney, who was 
born at Penshurst, the ancestral home of his 
family, accomplished no great military feat, 
but as a classical example of chivalrous 
gallantry his name may well be coupled with 
that of General Wolfe. The deeds of the 


other five men of Kent — Byng, Harvey, 
Pellew, Inglefield, and Jeremy Smith — are 
writ large in the story of the British Navy. 

Sussex and Essex, the maritime counties 
adjoining Kent, have but one name apiece, 

the former a soldier, General Sir W. Lennox, 
born at Goodwood, who won distinction in 
the Indian Mutiny, and the latter a sailor, 
Admiral Nicholas Haddock, born at Leigh, 
who distinguished himself as a captain in 
several brilliant engagements, and at the time 
of his death, in 1746, was commander-in-chief 
of the Mediterranean Squadron. Surrey, 
with no coast-line, produced one of the most 
successful seamen in Lord Rodney, who was 
born at Walton-on-Thames, and two other 
admirals of distinction in Sir John Balchen 
and Sir John T. Duckworth. Its neighbour, 
Hampshire, on the other hand, notwithstand- 
ing the great traditions embodied in Ports- 
mouth as its largest town, would be a blank 
as regards the Navy but for the circumstance 
that the Isle of Wight is attached to it as a 
geographical unit. Admiral Sir Thomas 
Hopson, who won fame at the Battle of 
Beachy Head in 1690, is said to have been 
born on the Island, although we have been 
unable to locate his birthplace. Of the three 
soldiers whose names adorn Hampshire on the 
map, Lord Cardigan will always be remem- 
bered as the leader of the Balaclava Charge, 
whilst Sir Herbert Stewart should not be soon 
forgotten for his services in the Egyptian War. 
Shropshire takes third place, after Devon 
and Kent, with five names, one of which, 
Lord Give, the creator of 
British India, occupies one 
of the highest positions in 
our military annals. Vis- 
count Hill, who shared 
with Wellington the glories 
of Vittoria, Almarez, and 
Waterloo, and Sir Herbert 
Edwards, who, although 
s\ ^ a nominally a Civil servant, 
C/Zr — -*r proved himself one of the 
&yy ablest soldiers India has 

ever seen, complete a mili- 
tary trio of which Shrop- 
shire has every reason to 
be proud. Admiral Ben- 
bow, whose valour at 
Beachy Head, Barfleur,and 
La Hogue, forms a thrilling 
page in our naval history, 
and Admiral Jennings, the 
hero of several fine exploits 
in the Mediterranean, are 
names scarcely less remark- 
able as being associated with an inland county. 
Shropshire's record in this latter respect, 
however, is outdone by another inland 
county, Staffordshire, which produced three 


seamen ol; 

vunuis; distinction in Lord St. 



Vincent, Lord Anson, and Lord Alan 
Gardner. John Jervis, Earl of St. Vincent, 
who was born at the Staffordshire village of 
Meaford, belongs, of course, to the same small 
and glorious company as Nelson, Drake, 
Collingwood, Blake, and Rodney. The fame 
of Anson and Gardner rests on a lower 
plane, but in our naval wars with France 
in the eighteenth century both 
admirals rendered memorable ser- 
vices at critical times. 

Norfolk has a glory all its own 
in possessing the village of Burn- 
ham Thorpe, which 
produced the 
matchless Nelson. 
The eastern 
county was also 
the birthplace of 
S i r Cloudesley 
Shovel, William 
I/s brilli a n 1 1 y 
successful admiral, 
and Sir Christopher 
Myngs, who did so 
much during Charles 
II.'s Dutch War to 
maintain British 
naval prestige 
at a time when 
it was at its 
lowest ebb. Of 
its two neigh- 
bours, Lincoln- 
shire and Suf- 
folk, the former 
can claim Admiral 
Sir John Franklin, 

the dauntless Arctic explorer, and Sir George 
Ayscue, one of Cromwell's " generals of the 
fleet," whilst the latter has only the name of 
Sir John Harman, a gallant colleague of Sir 
Christopher Myngs, to cherish. The little 
county of Huntingdon can fae with Norfolk in 
having been the birthplace of Cromwell, 
whose military genius, no less than his 
statesman-like power, Eventually secured, not 
merely the triumph of a party, but also 
the greatness of the nation. It is a far 
cry from Cromwejl to the Earl of Sandwich, 
Huntingdon's second name, and Sir Harry 
Smith, the only name contributed to our list 
by Cambridgeshire, the remaining eastern 
county. But Lord Sandwich served both 
Parliament and King upon the sea with 
equal gallantry, while Sir Harry Smith, as a 
S0>, *ier, rendered services in South Africa 
a S en e*nion ago, which are gratefully com- 
memorated in the name of one of its towns. 

Of the Western counties not already 
referred to Gloucestershire can claim, besides 
Admiral Penn as a native of Bristol, Lord 
Raglan, the commander-in-chief during the 
greater part of the Crimean War, and Admiral 
Sir Edward Codrington, 
whose useful career in 
the Navy culminated 
in the Battle of 
Navarino, when 
he commanded 
the Allied Fleets 
against the 
Turks. Somer- 
set has a more 
trio of names in 
Blake, Cromwell's 
greatest admiral, who 
first gained for Eng- 
land the decisive com- 
mand of the sea, 
Admiral Sir Samuel 
Hood, one of several 
members of a naval 
family who gained 
renown in the 
eighteenth century , 
and Admiral Sir Ed- 
ward Parry, celebrated 
for his Arctic voyages in 
the early part of the last 

Dorsetshire rivals 
Somerset in having given 
birth to the other two 
most distinguished mem- 
bers of the Hood family, 
and also to Sir Thomas Hardy, the captain of 
the Victory and Nelson's companion in the 
hour of his death. To Oxfordshire belongs the 
honour of having produced two Royal per- 
sonages whose prowess in the field has become 
almost proverbial — Edward the Black Prinze 
(Woodstock) and Richard I. (Oxford). 

Passing to the Midlands, we find that 
Worcestershire is associated with the name 
of the Earl of Warwick, Henry V.'s gallant 
lieutenant in his conquest of France, and Sir 
Hyde Parker, who was second in command 
to Rodney in actions with the French fleet. 
Derbyshire has General Sir James Outram, 
another member of the heroic band whom the 
Indian Mutiny produced, and Admiral John 
Gell, whose services during the struggle with 
Napoleon are perhaps not so well remembered 
as they ought to be. Nottinghamshire can 
claim two sailor? of widely different character, 





Willoughby, the pioneer in Polar 



expeditions, and Admiral Sir 
J. B. Warren, a very success- 
ful naval commander during 
the Napoleonic wars. 

Of the Northern coun- 
ties, pre-eminence must 
be given to Yorkshire 
with the names of four 
distinguished seamen. 
Frobisher, who shares 
with Drake and Haw- 
kins the glory of the 
victory over the 
Spanish Armada, 
was born at Doncas- 
ter, whilst Captain 
Cook is commemo- 
rated by a statue at 
Whitby, in a village near 
which seaport the dis- 
coverer of Australia was 
born. Sir Hugh Palliser, 
who was conspicuous in the 
naval war with France during 
the latter half of the eighteenth 
century, had Kirk Dighton, in 
the West Riding, as his native 
place, while Sir John Lawson, 
who won naval fights for both 
Cromwell and Charles II., was born 
and bred in the bracing air of Scar 

The rival county of Lancashire can claim 
but two names — Admiral Hornby and Admiral 
Sir John Norris, the latter called by the 
seamen of his time, early in the eighteenth 
century, " Foul- weather Jack," in recognition 
of the fact that the worse the elements were 
the readier he was to undertake any dangerous 
duty assigned to him. Of Northumberland's 
contribution of Collingwood and Bullen we 
have already spoken as natives of Newcastle- 
on-Tyne. To Durham the country owes the 
great soldier, Sir Henry Havelock, who was 
born at Bishop's Wearmouth. 

Proceeding to Scotland, we find that the 
county of Lanark has been most fertile in 
martial genius. Sir John Moore- and Lord 
Clyde, as natives of Glasgow, have already 
been spoken of. Of the other two, Lord 
Dundonald, otherwise known as Admiral 
Cochrane, has been honoured more by pos- 
terity than by his own generation, which, 
owing to the machinations of political and 




personal spite, most unjustly requited the 
brilliant seamanship and dauntless bravery 
he showed on more than one occasion. 

The neighbouring county of Renfrew claims 
the patriotic leader, William Wallace, and to 
Dumfries belongs the honour of having pro- 
duced an even greater hero in Robert Bruce. 

Of the Irish counties, Dublin shares with 
Down an equal distinction on our map, 
although if the names arc weighed as well as 
counted, the palm must be unhesitatingly 
given to the former. Of the sixteen names in 
all Ireland, it will be >seen, six belong to the 
province of Ulster. 

by Google 

Original from 

Sam Briggs Becomes a Soldier* 


Illustrated by Charles Pears. 

rW'-'- 7 T" 

IJSfea v 

'■►Hi* •' 

NTIL lately I didn't know that 
there was anything military 
about me — no, not a morsel. 
And as for foreign politics, 
how many young fellows do 
bother themselves about 
them ? When I heard that 
Austria was picking a quarrel with Servia 
I asked for the latest scores. When my 
mind, so to speak, was more filled with 
cricket than anything else, things began 
tumbling over each other in a style which 
took your breath away. 

I had taken Dora Wilkinson out for a little 
treat overnight ; the next morning it began. 
Austria declared war on Servia ; then Russia 
declared war on Austria ; then Germany said, 
according to the papers, that if Russia didn't 
back out they would fight them themselves. 
Then France chipped in. 

" If you people in Germany," somebody in 
France said, standing, I understood, for the 
French nation, " quarrel with Russia you 
quarrel with us." 

That's what did happen. In less than no 
time, according to my paper, Germany was 
declaring war on France. Then the Germans 
said that in order to get at France they would 
have to march through Belgium, which they 
had no more right to do than nothing at all. 
Then that put our backs up. 

" You touch our little friend Belgium if 
you dare!" 

On that Germany, who, from what I could 
gather, was out to bully everyone, announced 
t that if we ventured to try to prevent their 
doing what they liked, and keep them from 
trampling on a good friend of ours who they 
believed to be helpless, they would teach us 
a lesson. 

My word ! When I read in the newspapers 
that they talked about us like that, as if 
Great Britain were a small boy whom they 
couid take by the scruff of his neck and kick, 
didn't something happen to me which I 
thought never would have done! It set me 

tingling all over, so that I was hardly fit to 
talk to. Then came a burst. Germany 
started taking liberties with Belgium, as if 
nothing we had said was worth noticing ; so 
that unless we wished to show that what they 
thought of us was about right there was 
nothing left but for us to take our coats off. 
That meant that we should have to own our- 
selves in the wrong when we were in the right, 
and take a whipping without striking a blow. 
When it was understood that that was what 
it did mean, every man in England and Wales, 
Scotland and Ireland, took his coat off. 
I know I did mine. We are not military, 
but when we are pushed into a fight, we're 
not the sort to take it lying down. No ! 
And no one can say that Great Britain eyer 
was that sort. 

Of course, I don't pretend that I have told 
the story of how the row began as well as 
a chap who is good at that sort of thing would 
tell it, but so long as you've got the facts of 
the case what else matters ? And I'll bet 
twopence that I've got them as near as 
need be. 

My feelings when it was known that we were 
at war! — with Germany, a country which 
I had always understood was full of soldiers, 
whose only pleasure in fcfe was fighting. 
It seemed as if the bottom had dropped out 
of the world ; everything seemed to have gonfr 
all wrong. I was off my food to start with, 
I might have kept my money in my pocket 
for all the lunch I ate. Someone went shout- 
ing through the streets, " Great naval engage- 
ment in the North Sea ! German warships 
sunk ! " Everyone rushed out of the office 
to buy papers. They were charging a penny 
for halfpenny ones. There it was in great 
big letters. I felt like jumping for joy. Then 
an hour or so afterwards another paper came 
out which said the rumour was unfoundeJ ; 
no naval engagement had taken place, no 
cruisers had been sunk. I held up the paper 
in which the lir; ">vas& |t<Mdm 

" If tlp^Jj wgpip vented ip^j^ffice," I said 




right out, " something ought to be done to 
the chap who did it." 

That was what we all felt. The news which 
was flying about those first few days ! " It's 
no good buying a paper/' I told everyone. 
" You can't believe a word it says." Thfc 
remark applied even to my own paper, 
which I had always thought told the truth. 
The fact was that everyone, or nearly every- 
one, had gone off their heads, and they 
behaved accordingly. It was not strange ; 
in less than a week the whole face of the world 
was changed. One Saturday I was living the 
sort of life I always had lived — prospects 
bright, happy and contented as a king ; the 
next week it did not look as if there was any 
Kfe left to lead — nothing, anyhow, that was 
worth living — nothing anywhere but battle, 
murder, and sudden death ! I say it was not 
strange if people, even newspaper people, 
went off their heads. 

It was a pretty state of things at home. 
In less than no time I could see that there was 
going to be trouble there. I never saw a man 
change as my governor did. It had always 
been his boast that he had never had trouble 
with anyone. A more peaceable party never 
breathed, and except for occasional arguments 
with my mother — the most quiet-living men 
have to hold up their own ends against their 
wives — I believe that had been the case. But 
directly war was declared you would have 
thought he'd been going about all his life 
cutting people's throats. 

" I was reading the other day," my father 
said — he reads some queer books now and 
then — " a fairy tale about a sword which 
cut off a hundred heads every time you 
gave it a swing. Wouldn't I like to get hold 
of it for about a fortnight, and talk to the 
Germans, who are killing peaceful people for 
trying to defend themselves in Belgium." 

The papers were full of the mobilization of 
the Navy and the Army and the Territorials, 
and I don't know what besides. We knew 
several people who had been called back to 
the colours, some of them not so young as they 
had been once. 

" I call it wicked," said my mother, one 
morning at breakfast. " Here's Mr. Watkins 
got to leave at once. He's got a wife and 
three children, and she's expecting her fourth. 
Surely he's old enough to be left alone in 

" Peace ! " echoed my governor. " Would 
you call that peace — to lose a chance of being 
able to fight for his King and country? I'd 
like to change with him. I sent in my 
application yesterday, but they wouldn't 

have me. What wouldn't I give to have his 
chance ? " 

" You sent in your what ? " asked my 
mother, very cool and very calm. " Would 
you be so good as to explain what you 
mean ? " 

" There isn't much to explain," the governor 
said. He always does turn a little pale when 
the mater speaks to him like that. " There 
are papers stuck up in our office asking men 
who want to volunteer for active service to 
send in their names at once ; so I sent mine." 

" Oh, you did, did you ? What sort of 
active service did you volunteer for ? " 

" What does it matter ? They wouldn't 
have me ; they said I was too old — for any 
sort of service. And here's Watkins, who's 
not so very much younger than I am — they 
ask him to go, just because he's been with 
the colours before. And I, who could do a 
day's fighting with any man, I'm put upon the 
shelf. It isn't fair." - + 

" You talk like a foolish man," was all 
my mother said. Perhaps that was because 
she could see how hard the governor was hit. 
But I could hear her say whpn she went out- 
side to help him into his coat, " You shouldn't 
talk like that, not before the boy. Think 
of the bad example you're showing him." 

The mater talking like that made me think. 
What did she mean by " the bad example " 
which the governor was showing me ? Her 
words were in my mind all day. Somehow 
they steadied me. Up to then I had not been 
quite master of myself, a little all over the 
shop, as it were. I felt aslf I should like to 
pick up the first coal-hammer, or poker, or 
whatever it might be, and give the next 
German I met one over the head, and do this, 
mark you, as if it were an ordinary sort of 
occupation which I found amusing. But when 
the mater talked about the governor showing 
me a bad example because he wanted to 
join one of the Services, that set my thoughts 
off on a different line. 

I have never set up to be a fighting man. 
No, it has been generally rather the other 
way — I didn't know there was a fight in me. 
I do not need to be told that I have not the 
figure of a soldier. Taken as a whole, they 
run more to the leg than I do. I am too 
short, and, so to speak, too plump. I should 
not have minded this in a general way, but 
at that time, whenever I looked at myself 
in a big mirror — which was at every chance 
I got — I felt that things were rather hard on 
me. I gave myself a good stare in a mirror 
which was in the window of a tailor's shop 
inUfeHVEfcorough Roach The window was 



practically all looking-glass, about a quarter 
of a mile of it. I compared myself with 
Sergeant Twentyman, who is an officer in 
the Coldstream Guards, and walks out with 
a young lady who lives across the road. 
A magnificent picture of a man he is, who as 
a husband would do any lady credit. 

" No," I was obliged to admit to myself, 
" it won't do, it really won't ; it isn't reason- 
able to expect it. Who's going to have you 
for a soldier when there are men like Twenty- 
man ? Go home, my lad, go home ; you're 
one of the degenerate young Englishmen of 
to-day, a mere pigmy, that's what you are." 

As a rule I should not have minded. I never 
have objected to being what I am ; I never 
have had the slightest wish to be mistook for 
Twentyman. But it did depress me then, 
things being what they were. There was 
a big advertisement appearing in all the 
papers, " Your King and Country Need You. 
A Call to Arms ! " 

It went on to say that an additional hundred 
thousand men were wanted in His Majesty's 
Regular Army. Wanted, were they ? Well, 
so far as I was concerned, it seemed that 
they'd have to be wanted ; but a comfortless 
point of view it seemed to be. I met Bill 
Edwards going out to lunch. He was in such 
a cockadoodle state that you'd have thought 
he had grown two inches. I was in such a 
state of depression myself that I wanted to 
walk straight past him without speaking. 
I could see he was much too full of beans for 
the mood I was in. But he wouldn't let me 

" Halloa, Sam, old man ! What do you 
think ? This is something like, this is. What 
do vou think ? I'm off ! " 

""Off ? " I said. " Off where ? Do you 
mean you're going for a week-end to Margate, 
or is it Clacton ? " 

" Margate — Clacton ! " You should have 
seen him sniff. I had known the time when 
he would have been glad enough to have the 
chknce of going for a week-end to either. 

" I'm going to the front, that's where I'm 
going — or as near the front as I can get. I've 
joined the Territorials, and I start by train 
to-night — Tidworth my quarters are to be at." 

Bill Edwards made me tired. Once started 
you could not stop him. And who was he, 
I should like to know, to rub it into me ? 
And he did rub it in. 

" Everyone," he declared, right out loud 
in the open street, " ought to be going some- 
where and doing something. I was told by 
a man who knows that the Germans are going 
to land at Harwich. That's where I want 

them to send me. If a German sets his foot 
on English ground as an invader — I shall have 
learned something by then of what a soldier 
ought to do — I'll show him. If he keeps it 
there it will be because I'm dead. It's nearly 
a-thousand years since England was invaded, 
and it makes my blood boil to think of it 
happening now." 

To listen to him you would have thought 
that he was the only one whose blood could 
boil — I should very much like to know what 
else mine was doing all the time. I could 
have cried with rage, to think of a thing like 
that happening, and me doing nothing to 
stop it. 

At Dora's there was her brother Tom and 
her mother. They were having supper. I sat 
down and had a snack. In those days no one 
talked of anything but the war ; cricket and 
that sort of thing was nowhere. I found 
I had interrupted a conversation on the 
usual theme, in which Tom was holding forth 
in a way which took me rather aback. He's 
a level-headed chap, is Tom Wilkinson, cool 
and cautious, one of those fellows who like 
to make sure on which side, their bread is 
buttered. He had an evening paper in his 
hand, open at the advertisement, " Your King 
and Country Need You. A Call to Arms ! " 

" I take that advertisement to be addressed 
especially. tQ me, as it is to you, Sam, or any 
other young chap." 

" It's not addressed especially to Sam," 
said Dora. " Nothing of the kind. Don't 
you go putting such ideas into his head." 

" Well, we'll leave Sam out. I do know it's 
addressed especially to me." 

His mother cut in. She's a woman who 
has known a good deal of trouble, is Mrs. 
Wilkinson. Somehow I always do feel sorry 
for her. 

" Tom, you really didn't ought to talk like 
that. You're the only son of your mother, 
and she's a widow. Those are not the young 
men who are called to arms." 

" That's where it is, mother — aren't they ? 
You see, this is an appeal to a man to serve 
his country. The question is, will he serve 
her better by going out to fight, or by staying 
at home ? That's where it is. I can't make 
up my mind. Before long they'll be pointing 
their fingers at the chaps who haven't volun- 
teered. If anyone pointed his finger at me 
I should have to hit him ; anyhow, I should 
try to. You don't want your son to be held 
up to execration as a shirker." 

" Tom, don't — vou mustn't talk like that. 
If you only knew how it hurts. No one would 

ever c^tytf y1|$SHft' Eff^K^fffctF - no one '" 



" Shall I dare to call myself a shirker, that's 
the point. That's what bothers me. Let me 
explain. Someone will have to stay at home. 
If no one does the country will go to pieces 
in a week. So far ks Fm concerned I'm 
working for three people — for you, for Dora, 
for myself. Dora earns what she can " 

" Which is not as much as she'd like, by 
a very long way." 

This was Dora. Tom went on. 

" The machine has got to be kept going. 
If it weren't for me it would stop." 

His mother, white-faced, sat staring at him 
with troubled eyes. 

" It certainly would, Tom ; it is you that 
keeps a roof above our heads. I suppose 
I should have to go to the workhouse if you 
didn't. I don't see how the country would 
gain by my doing that." 

" I doubt if it would ; it would probably 
lose. It's an open question how much my 
services as a soldier would be worth. If I 
could account for four or five Germans it 
might be different ; but could I ? Then there's 
the question of duty. I owe a duty to my 
country ; the consciousness of that keeps me 
awake at night. And the duty I owe to my 
mother ? Where does thit come in ? " 

" Tom, if there comes a time when England 
is in such trouble that she needs every strong 
arm to strike a blow for her I shall say, 
* Strike it ! ' But that time is not yet ; pray 
God it will never come. Until it does I believe 
you will be serving England better by keeping 
the machine from stopping." 

" I believe so too, mother. It's easier to go 
as a soldier and see life " 

" And death, Dora." 

" Yes, Tom, and death. It is easier to go 
as a soldier and see life, and death, and do 
things, than to stay at home and work and 
wait, and do nothing. I'd love to be in the 
fighting line. Look at Sam ! I've noticed the 
change which has taken place in him during 
the last few days. He's so full of fidgets 
that he can't keep still. Now, Sam, aren't 
you ? " 

" They say that Germany is putting a 
million more men in the field. We haven't 
half that number all told. Every man is 
wanted. If he isn't wanted to fight now he 
will be very shortly." 

" I see, Sam. That's what's in your head, 
is it ? I thought so." 

" I can't help it, Dora. I just simply can't. 
Suppose the Germans were to try to invade 
England, and I wasn't there to help to stop 
them, I should never be able to hold up mv 
head again." 

" Wouldn't you, Sam ? What would you 
do to help to stop them ? You've never had 
a gun in your hand all your life." 

" Not an Army rifle, Dora ; but I've handled 
guns at fairs and that sort of thing. I never 
met anyone who could aim better. I've broken 
bottles and egg-shells, and hit corks and run- 
ning mice with anyone. More than one pro- 
prietor of a shooting-gallery has told me that 
I'm a natural shot. You've seen me shoot, 
haven't you, Tom ? " 

" I have. I shouldn't wonder if Sam's 
right — if he is what you call a natural shot. 
I remember at Barnet Fair our standing him 
at the farthest point at which the rifle was 
supposed to carry, and starting him shooting 
at bottles. There were half-a-dozen of us ; 
we agreed to pay for his shots between us 
until he missed one. I don't know how many 
bottles he broke, but I know he never missed 
one till a long time after we'd had enough of 
paying. Don't you remember, Sam ? " 

I did — and what a hot day it was, and how, 
somehow, my eye was in so that it seemed that 
I couldn't miss. I liked to feel that, after all, 
it might turn out that there was one thing I 
could do. I tried to explain to them what had 
been going on inside me during the last few 

" It's funny, but you mustn't laugh; I'm 
getting to a state that I don't know where I 
am. The idea of me turning out to fight is 
too ridiculous ; I know that. But, Dora, 
suppose I've got to ? " 

" What do you mean by suppose you've 
got to ? " 

" I'm not much of a chap at imagining 
things, but all the while, day and night, I 
seem to hear three words : ' The bugle sounds.' 
That's all — * The bugle sounds ' — a call to 
me. I've only got to listen a moment, and 
sometimes I haven't got even to do that. 
There ! Don't you hear it now ? That's the 
bugle sounding." I felt they were staring 
at me as if they thought I had gone mad. 
" I know it's funny — I told you it was funny. 
I know it's only imagination — but I can hear 
it all the same. ' The bugle sounds ' — a call 
to me. If I buy a paper and read about the 
fighting, about the chaps getting ready to go 
out, about the trouble everywhere, about 
preparations which are being made for a 
great battle, all the while I am reading, * The 
bugle sounds.' I don't know where. Some- 
times it is quite close, sometimes it is a long 
way off. It comes in the middle of my reading 
the paper— I . can't escape it. * The bugle 
sounds '- a cult forte'"' It will keep on calling 



Tom looked as if he could not make me out 
at all, and I daresay he couldn't. I couldn't 
make myself out. 

" Look here, Sam," he said, " what's gone 
wrong with you ? If I were you I should take 
something for it. When you talk and look 
like that I feel as if something had happened 
to my Sam." 

" That's just it — something has happened. 
I've got to go ! " 

" Where have you got to go, Sam ? " asked 

" That's just it, Dora ; I don't quite know. 
I've got to go where they send me — to where 
the other chaps are fighting." 

" Do you mean you want to go as a 

" I don't want to go. You know, Dora, 
that I'm no soldier. I'm all for peace, I am. 
I don't hold with fighting — never did and 
never shall. I know it's all rot, but can you 
hear anything ? " 

44 I can hear you talking." 

" Yes, that's just what it is — that shows 
it's rot. I don't suppose I really hear any- 
thing either. I keep on telling myself that 
I don't. It must be indigestion or something. 
I don't know what I've eaten, but it must be ; 
it stands to reason. All the same, I seem to 
hear it as clearly as I heard your voice just 
now. * The bugle sounds ' — a call for me. 
First I hear those three words pronounced, 
sometimes softly , sometimes loudly, sometimes 
they seem to be roared. Then I hear the 
notes of the bugle — so clearly. I don't know 
anything about bugles ; I've only heard one 
in my life, and that was in the barrack- 
ground in St. James's Park when they were 
drilling some recruits. I don't know what the 
notes mean — all I do know is that they're 
calling to me. I've got to go and find out 
where they come from ; I've got to, Dora, as 
sure as you and I are here." 

" I thought, Sam, that you were talking 
about marrying next month ? " 

" So I was. I've got my eye upon a home 
and the furniture, and maybe we may still 
make it next month, if the war is over." 

" If it isn't over— what then ? " 

" That's just it— what then ? If it isn't 
over I shall have to keep on fighting. Not 
that I shall be any good at that — I shall have 
to do my best, that's all. I suppose a soldie^ 
is like any other cl>ap — he has to put up the 
best fight he can. He can't do more." 

Tom cut in : " Sam, you talk like a kid ! 
Do you think a chap's going to be turned 
into a soldier in a month ? A good soldier 
is a machine ; a perfect soldier is a perfect 

Vot xHx.— 4* 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

machine — according to the Germans. He has 
to be turned into another man before he can 
even begin to be a soldier. That takes more 
than a month — more like a year." 

" I understand they can't afford to spend 
a year on any chap ; men are wanted in a 
hurry. I shall have to do the best I can. I 
shall be all right at the shooting with a little 
practice, though I don't suppose I shall ever 
get beyond a, certain point. But it won't 
take a year to get me there — a fortnight, more 
like. So soon as I get used to the feel of an 
Army rifle I shouldn't wonder if I were pretty 
quick at learning how to use it. I should 
like to have a rifle to try." 

Mrs. Wilkinson looked at Dora as if she 
were not quite able to make me out. 

" What does he mean, Dora ? Does he 
want to be a soldier ? " 

" It seems, mother, as if he did. It's got 
into his blood — the idea of being a soldier 
has. I daresay he'll make a good one." 

" And how about your marriage ? All your 
things are nearly made." 

" I shall have to put my marriage off till 
the war is over." She came and sat down 
in a chair next to mine, putting her arms 
round my neck and her soft cheek against 
my face. 

" Sam," she whispered, " you're going 
to be a soldier. You can't think how 
proud I shall be when I know that you're 

" I don't know what there will be to be 
proud of in that, Dora — honest, I don't ! 
I sha'n't be fighting because I want to, but 
just because I can't help it. There's nothing 
to be proud of in doing what you can't help 

" That's right, Sam. Don't think I don't 
understand, because I do." 

What she meant I didn't understand. If 
you'll believe me, those two women made 
quite a fuss — all of a sudden, because of 
nothing at all ; at least, nothing I could see. 
Funny things, women are ! Having once got 
the idea into their heads, it seemed to me 
that what they wanted me to do was to 
start off and turn myself into a soldier then 
and there. How they thought I was going 
to do it at that time of night I couldn't 
make out. 

Then they started arguing as to what 
sort of a soldier I was to be. From what I 
could make out, Mrs. Wilkinson would have 
liked me to go in the cavalry ; she seemed to 
see me galloping across a tented field. She 
had a cousin who was in the cavalry ; a fine 
figure of a man he was on a horse ; it didn't 

u I I I ■_» I I I 




seem to occur to her to stop and think that 
I shouldn't be. I won't say that I had never 
been on a horse, because in a manner of 
speaking I had ; but never once haven't I 
been more willing to get off than I was to 
get on. Dora thought the Territorials would 
be more in my line. They were, so to speak, 
guarding all Battersea at that very time. 
She had a friend who was guarding Harwich. 
If the Germans were to try to land he and his 
friends would teach them a lesson — and quite 
right, too ! Dora was of opinion that guard- 
ing Harwich would suit me very well. Per- 
haps it might ; but somehow it was a job 
which didn't appeal to me. Nothing would 
suit me which didn't give me a chance of 
fighting for England abroad. I wanted to 
have a shot at the enemy before they could 
come and have a shot at me. And I was 
going to have it, too. 

I strolled home with Tom. I won't say 
we strolled straight home, because we did 
not. That was why, when we did get home, 
we found that Mrs. Wilkinson and Dora had 
got there before us. There they were, all 
five of them — the pater, the mater, my sister 
Louisa, Dora, and Mrs. W. — sitting round the 
table in the parlour, waiting for me to come. 
The pater began at me at once. 

" My boy," he said — it isn't often he goes 
in for the heavy- father sort of line, but when 
he does I somehow don't know whether to 
laugh or take him seriously — " it warms the 
cockles of my heart to learn that in my son's 
veins is patriotic blood." 

What could I do when he said a thing like 
that except look at Tom to give him warning 
that if he so much as smiled I should punch 
his head ? Louisa said the same sort of 
thing which I fancy sisters mostly do say 
to their brothers. I won't say that I'd never 
had a shot at her, because there are times 
when I simply can't help doing it ; but she 
has never lost a chance of snubbing me — that 
I do assert. 

" Sam, whatever makes you want to be so 
silly ? The idea of your going fighting ! It's 
ridiculous ! " 

It was no good my carrying on a conversa- 
tion with her on those lines, so I sat still — 
especially as Dora was quite ready to do my 
share of the talking. 

" I don't know why you talk like that to 
your own brother, Louisa. I'm certain Sam 
will be a good soldier. I shouldn't be sur- 
prised if he was an officer before long — or 

" I'm sure that he will be, dear." Louisa 
spoke sweetly. I knew her. " Somehow he 

by t^ 



doesn't seem to have quite the cut of an officer 
about him to me." 

" Louisa," struck in my mother, " you're 
always making fun of your brother. He's 
your own flesh and blood, and you've no 
right to do it. No, feeling about soldiers as 
I do, I've always been grateful that he's 
got the figure he has." She turned to the 
pater. "This is your fault. When you 
were talking about volunteering the other 
day you unsettled the boy's mind. He's got 
a good situation, and now he'll lose it — because 
of the silly stuff his father talks ! " 

The pater defended himself on lines of his 

" Messrs. Blagden and Cook, who appreciate 
the services of a valuable employe, will no 
doubt keep the situation open until the war 
is over." 

" Much good would that do, if in the war 
he's shot dead. I saw only yesterday that 
some regiment has been decimated. Suppose 
they decimate his ? What will he want with 
a situation then ? And he the only son of 
his mother ! " 

The mater put her handkerchief up to her 
eyes. I say it's a trick she has, which makes 
her wild. 

" Nineteen out of every twenty soldiers 
who go to a war come back uninjured," I 
told her plainly. " The twentieth perhaps 
gets scratched. What soldiers mostly do get 
is enough fighting to last for the rest of their 

" When," asked my father, " do you pro- 
pose, my boy, to offer your services to your 
King and Country ? " 

" The very first chance I get, that's all I 

" Since they're not likely to be accepted, 
there won't be much harm done — will there, 
Sam ? " This was Louisa. 

But I did offer them. I made up my mind 
that they should be accepted or I'd never 
show my face again. And they were ; though, 
mind you, I admit that in a certain sense 
it was a narrow squeak. The next morning 
I put two or three things together in a bag 
and sneaked out of the house without saying a 
word to anyone. Our place is at Walham 
Green, but I went to a recruiting office over 
at Camberwell, because I did not want to offer 
myself at a place where there were people 
who knew me who might laugh if I did not 
happen to be accepted. Not that I meant to 
be rejected, because my intention was to offer 
myself at every recruiting station in London 
— and, if need be, in England — until I was 
accepted. But, all the same, I did not mean 




ong way. 

to begin by perhaps being turned down in 
my own district. 

It was pretty early when I got to 
well, but I wasn't the first there by a I 
The recruiting station was at some 
kind of 1 drill-hall made of corru- 
gated iron, used by the Territorials. 
There were several chaps there 
when I arrived , sitting on forms, 
waiting their turns. Seated at a 
table were some officers. A young 
fellow was offering himself as I 

came in. He was a big chap, quite six feet 
high, with a great, broad chest. He made 
up for his size by being without brains. 
Very stupid he was at answering the questions 
which were put to him. The 
officer who was asking most 
of them seemed to wonder if 
he wasn't half-witted. I saw 
him make a note upon a 
sheet of paper and whisper 
something as he gave it to a 
sergeant. From the way in 
which the .sergeant pi a need 
at the candidate I dare bet 
sixpence that the note on 
the paper was a hint to the 











doctor to make 
sure that the 
chap was all 
right in the 
upper storey. 

There seemed 
to be no diffi- 
culty about any 
of the others. 
They walked 
up to the table, 
answered the 
signed their 
nam es, and 
were sent off to 
another room 
to pass the 
medical exami- 
nation — that 
was the part 1 
was afraid of ; 
the medical 

I had noticed 
when I came 
into the room 
that people 
looked at me 
and sniggered. 
I knew what 
they were 
sniggering at ; 
it made me 
mad ! I had 
known all along 

what I might 
expec t— t h e 
only thing I could do was to put up with it. 
When my turn came and T started to go to 
the table ? someone smiled right out. Several 
others had arrived after me; the room was 
pretty full I could not very well look round 
to see who had smiled; I should have been 
an idiot if I had ! As I went forward 1 felt 
that there was more than one. I tried to 
hold my head up straight, but the way in 
which the officer asked the very first question 
nearly took the stiffening right out of me, 

11 Well, sir, what do you want ? 1T He 
looked at me as if he wondered what business 
I could possibly have there, I had my hat 
in my right hand. I held myself upright and 
looked him straight in the face. And all the 
time I felt that any attempt to carry myself 
off as if I were someone would be a failure. 
I tried to answer as if I didn't care for any- 

li If you please , sir, I've come to enlist." 



11 To enlist ? Oh ! What might your name 
be, at any rate ? " 

He put an accent on the way in which he 
said (l Oh ! pl which started everyone in the 
room tittering. I told him what my name 

11 Are you aware, sir," he asked, iC what is 
the minimum height required for a candidate 
for the Army ? ,J 

tj That's in time of peace, sir. I don't see 
that it matters what height he is in time of 
war. I f m not tall, but I'm healthy and strong- 
I don't tire ; I could walk most of those chaps 
that are sniggering to a standstill any day ! 
For my height my chest measurement is a 
good deal better than many of theirs, And I 
can shoot ; 111 shoot anyone in this room 
with revolver, fpm, or rifle. What's wanted 
in the man behind the gun is not inches, but 
the knack of knowing how to hit the target - 
Never mind about my height, sir ; if I pass 





the doctor you can give me a chance. If 
after I've joined a month it's seen that I'm 
not likely to do any good, chuck me out \ 
only give me a chance." 

Of course I knew I was an ass to talk like 
that, but I feel pretty sure that if Fd let them 
go on sniggering without saying a word I 
should never have been passed at Camberwcll 
Green. The officer seemed as if he did not 

know what to make of me. He referred to 

the sergeant, 
l£ You hear what this young gentleman 

says, sergeant ? How many inches is he 

under regulation height ? M 
k ' I should say about two. It seems to me 

as if he were like a little bantam cock, and 

bantams aren't such bad birds, sir — they re 

not wanting for pluck. If he can shoot as 

he says he can " 


iJ What proof have vou, my lad, that ^ 
can shoot ? " 

"You take 
me somewhere 
and give me a 
gun or a rifle : 
1*11 back myself 
against anyone 
in the room/' 

No one need 
tell me that it 
was mere gas 
for me to talk 
like that; 1 
never had had 
any real prac- 
tice with a gun 
or a revolver in 
my life. Most 
of my shooting 
had been at 
shooting g a 1- 
leries — *' Penny 
a shot " — and 
that sort of 
thing. But, all 
the same, I felt 
it in my bones 
that if anyone 
did accept my 
challenge I 
should best 
him- As a rule, 
I haven't the 
p 1 u c k of a 
mouse, but just 
then I would 
have backed 
myself to do 

Everything was hanging in the balance ; in 

the staring line I gave the officer as good 

as he sent. He did not seem to mind. 
" We'll take his particulars, sergeant, and 

leave the doctor to turn him down/' 
The doctor did not turn me down* When 

he saw me he grinned all over his face. He 

looked at my paper and made me mad at 

the very first question he asked. 

'' Have you ever been in a show, Briggs ? T ' 
" Show, sir? Why should I have been in 

a show r ? Do you mean as one of the 

audience ? ** 

Something in my tone caught his ear. He 

glanced up ; eyed me steadily ; his own tone 

changed. He spoke dryly. 

" I can't quite tell you what w r as in my 

mind 7 but I presume you .have not been. 

Are you aware what is the minimum height 

for the ArmyDfiHinal from 




us, sir ? " He pointed to a metal rule with a 
movable head which stood against the wall. 
I went up to it. " I see, sir. If you'll allow 
me to measure myself I think I may prove 
that I'm up to the regulation height." 

" Thank you, Briggs. Your offer to save 
trouble by measuring yourself is a good one. 
If you're pretty certain you're right, we'll 
enter you. As to your other measurements, 
I'm afraid I shall have to take those 

He did — I was glad of it ; everything was 
all right there. I passed with flying colours. 
As the doctor put it : — 

" If you were two or three inches taller 
you'd be a well-proportioned man, Briggs. 
Your chest measurement, lungs, heart, and 
that sort of thing are all right ; if anything, 
you're above the average of a man of five- 
foot-six. Your sight seems curiously good. 
I've a notion that it won't be long before 
you're proving it. Promising young men are 
badly wanted. You'll be fighting for King 
and Country before you know it." 

My word ! It bucked me up to hear him 
talk like that. I wanted to say, " Thank 
you," but thought I'd better not. They took 
my measurements for my kit and I went to 
my first drill that very morning. 

" Regulation uniform will want a little 
altering for you, my lad," said the man who 
was in the tailor's shop. " All our clothes 
are made to certain stock sizes ; none of 
them will fit you — you're both too small and 
too big. However, if they've made up their 
minds at head-quarters which regiment you're 
going to be drafted into, I have no doubt we 
can turn your lordship out to your entire 
satisfaction in less than no time." * 

We were a funny crowd in the drill-ground. 
It reminded me of some of those troupes you 
see at music-halls — beginning with me at 
five- foot-nothing, and going up to a chap of 
six- foot- ten. 

This I will say — take it on the whole, those 
chaps were as bright as needles — and as sharp 
— yes, and as keen. It was plain that all they 
wanted was to be turned into soldiers in the 
shortest possible space of time. And I was 
willing to bet a trifle that jolly fine soldiers 
they would make. I don't want to say a 
•vord against the chap who's forced into the 
Army against his will and hating it ; accord- 
ing to what we hear sometimes, he makes a 
good soldier too. But don't tell me that your 
raw hand, who is eager to fight for his 
country in* her time of need, will not make 

a good soldier too — and perhaps in a shorter 
time than the other chap. 

They had got a temporary building at 
Camberwell; till orders came to send us on 
to the regiments to which we were to be 
attached they gave me a shake-down there. 
Time was so precious that none of it was 
wasted. We not only had field drill to go 
through, but other drills. You would be 
surprised if you knew how much there was 
to be learned. 

We were at liberty after a certain hour, and 
when that first day I got to the gates, there 
was Dora waiting. There was quite a small 
crowd of girls, all waiting for their fellows. 
I can't tell you how proud I felt as I walked 
home with Dora — a bit beyond myself, I was, 
and more. 

" So they've accepted you ? " asked Dora. 
I knew from the way she looked at me 
that she was reckoning me up. The way she 
did it so confused me that I daresay I put 
on more swank than I should have done had 
I been more master of myself. 

" Accepted ? Rather ! Didn't you think 
I should be accepted ? I'm going to be a 
corporal next week — if not sooner." 

" Sam ! No, are you really ? " The serious 
way she took me was a bit of a facer. I 

" Well, perhaps not quite next week. I 
don't think they give even first-rate soldiers 
their stripes quite as soon as that." She had 
brought me an evening paper. There were 
no definite news in it, but it was full of blood 
and thunder. Men were fighting everywhere. 
English, French, and Belgians were standing 
shoulder to shoulder, bent on keeping the 
German peril back. " I tell you what, 
Dora," I added. " If I'm not exactly a 

corporal next week, very soon " I paused 

and I looked up at the darkening sky. Some- 
thing seemed to catch me in the throat. " I'll 
be fighting for King and Country." 

She looked at me. I caught her putting 
up her handkerchief to her eyes, as my mother 
did ; only her handkerchief was a great deal 
smaller than the mater's. 

" Dora," I asked, " what is the matter ? 
Why are you doing that ? " 

"It's only — Sam, it's only because I'm glad." 

There was something in her voice which 
made me wonder. 

" Put your arm in mine," I told her. She 
did. We walked homewards arm-in-arm — 
njore silent, somehow, than I had meant 
to be. 

[Further experiences of Sam Briggs as a soldier will 

um \ tnji 


«-— --..month.] 


From " SimflitMmu*.'' 

The Germans' Claim for Their Culture. 
HE civilized world has been 
shocked by the reiterated 
statement of German leading 
men , who undoubtedly repre- 
sent tht conviction of the 
large majority of those Ger- 
mans capable of considering 
such a matter- at alh that the war now raging 
in Europe has been deliberately planned and 
is being carried on by them for the arrogant 

purpose of establishing u German culture" 
and imposing it upon all the nations of the 
earth— for their good. 

The circular, issued since the war began, by 
a number of University professors, sought to 
excuse the steady preparation by Kaiser 
Wilhelm for the murder of his neighbours — 
whilst professing friendship for them and 
devotion to peace — on the ground of the 
4nankip i d.-0l| u^t they called 

3 r »ij 


?* n On the same 



ground the world was asked to condone the 
even viler crime of attacking and ravaging 
innocent Belgium, a country which the 
German Government was formally bound by 
solemn contract (" a scrap of paper ") to 

These German professors actually propose 
that the murderous greed and contemptible 
treachery which have, during two centuries, 
marked the steady growth of the Hohen- 
zollerns* power should be regarded as non- 
existent because they have been accompanied 
by astuteness and ability in organizing both 
the intellectual and military resources of the 
subjugated German people. They appear to 
think that, if you profess to be acting in the 
service of a mumbo-jumbo culture, murder 
becomes no crime and robbery an act of 
philanthropy. The murderous seizure of 
Slesvig - Holstein, of Alsace - Lorraine, of 
Hanover, Brunswick, and other territories in 
the past, and the contemplated murder of 
Frenchmen and Englishmen with a view to 
plundering and destroying their cities by fire 
and sword cease, according to these prepos- 
terous professors, to be crimes when effected 
in the name of German culture, and become 
deeds of beauty and virtue. Even at the 
moment when the civilized world stood aghast 
at the treachery of the German attack on 
Belgium, the brutality of their soldiery, and 
the barbarity of their destruction of great 
cities and historical monuments, the President 
of the Prussian Diet declared, in an address 
to that body delivered on October 22nd, 19 14, 
that the German armies were engaged in the 
fulfilment of " the great Kultur-mission of the 
German people among the nations of the 

Such unctuous professions can only be 
regarded as inflated nonsense, the utterance 
of minds disordered by conceit and debauched 
by Prussian tyranny. The Germans' happy 
dream of brotherhood and a united fatherland 
with which, as it existed years ago, we all 
sympathized, has been transformed by the 
malign influence of the Prussian military 
party into a hideous obsession of murder and 

To English-speaking people the attempt 
to justify the infamy of Germany by the 
pretence that through its operation German 
culture is being spread, appears to be either a 
shameless jest or else the result of a national 
illusion which is of the nature of " collective 
dementia " — a mental disease not unknown to 
students of such matters. One is reminded 
by it of the brutal enforcement of Christianity 
— the religion of love, of peace, and good-will 

among men — by the Spanish conquerors of 
South America, who used for that purpose 
what we to-day know as " German methods." 

Meaning of the Word " Culture." 

There is, however, underlying this impres- 
sion a misconception. The word " culture " 
has in our own language a variety of meanings, 
of which the one most readily suggested by 
the recent German talk of " German Kultur " 
is that which we owe to Matthew Arnold, by 
whose followers it was made into a shibboleth. 
" Culture," wrote Matthew Arnold in his 
" Literature and Dogma," " is the acquainting 
ourselves with the best that has been known 
and said in the world.' ' In fact, Arnold 
availed himself of the well-known rhetorical 
form called " hyperbole " and created con- 
fusion and misconception by its use. He 
meant by " culture " what he considered to 
be the best kind of mental culture, and the 
only kind worthy of the name — namely, a well- 
directed training in literature and history. 

It is not in this sense (as English people 
are liable to suppose) that the Germans are 
now using the word " Kultur" — but in a 
wider sense which we can best appreciate by 
considering the original meaning of the word 
" culture." The Latin word cidtura is 
connected with the verb colere — to plough, 
and simply means tillage— the preparation 
of the earth for the reception of seed. It 
has long been applied by both French and 
English writers to the training of the mind — 
the youthful mind being thus fancifully 
regarded as " unfurrowed soil " or " an 
unweeded garden." Hobbes, in his 
" Leviathan," published in 1651, says : " The 
education of children is a culture of their 
minds " ; and Sir Thomas More writes of 
" the culture and profit of their myndes." 

Just as every crop of the earth may be 
the object of a special and appropriate 
" culture," so may each crop or activity 
of the human mind and body, and so may 
the characteristic activities of each group 
of humanity, whether class, race, people, or 
nation. " Culture " is thus seen to become 
naturally and logically a term of biological 
science applicable to the control and direction 
by humanity of the growth, development, 
and activities of living things, including, 
as by far its more important part, the control 
and direction of the growth, development, and 
activities — mental as well as corporeal, 
national as well as individual — of humanity 

It is in tliii sense that the word has gradually 
advanced into use oi late yws, Already in 



1876 Freeman wrote in his " Norman 
Conquest " of those who had to deal with " a 
language and culture which was wholly alien 
to them." Tylor, the anthropologist, wrote 
of " Primitive Culture " when discussing the 
early state of mankind. 

The best example which I can find of the 
use of the word " culture " in this sense 
(which is that in which it is now employed by 
the German apologists of Prussian mfamy 
and its " Kultur-mission ") is in a well-known 
book pubhshed at Gottingen in 1857 — several 
years before Matthew Arnold's unfortunate 
misappropriation of the word. This book is 
Hermann's " Culturgeschichte der Griechen 
und Romer." In his preface the author says : 
" Culture is for a people what education is 
for an individual, provided that we use the 
word ' education ' not in its narrow pedagogic 
sense, but as comprising all those influences 
to which both the intellectual and material 
condition and development are subjected in 
the course of life." 

The name " Culturkampf," or " Culture- 
struggle," was invented by Karl Blind, in 
1872, for the struggle in Prussia between the 
" Freisinnige," or Secularists, and the Catholic 
Church for the support of the State. It was 
a struggle, not for the triumph of " culture " 
in the Arnoldian sense, but about the influence 
to be accorded to or withheld from the 
Catholic Church in the Prussian State over 
" culture," in the wide sense explained above. 

German Culture Becomes Kaiserism. 

The " culture-struggle " assumed a new 
character when William II., the present Kaiser, 
came to the throne. He took German culture 
into his own hands, and completely altered 
its previous features. He made it his business 
—not only by his own speeches, but by the 
aid of inventors of history such as Treischke — 
to appeal to the inflammable imagination of 
the German people, especially the University 
students, as a romantic figure, the descendant 
and present embodiment of mediaeval heroes, 
the war-lord and arbiter of their destinies, 
the repository of all knowledge, art, and true 
religion, himself the head and leader of the 
culture of the Teutonic world. He presented 
himself as a demi-god clad in shining armour, 
perpetually defying the enemies of the Father- 
land, and ready with his mailed fist to punish 
foreign aggressors. On the other hand, he 
appealed to the German world as the father 
of his people, ready to help them in all true 
progress, in all social amelioration, in all 
commercial enterprise, but — demanding as his 
right their implicit obedience, the dedication 

Vol xlix.-6. 

of their youth to drastic military discipline, 
and, if he should so decree, the sacrifice of 
their lives in war without question or thought 
as to its origin or purpose. 

The Emperor, in fact, successfully imposed 
military absolutism, and himself as its ex- 
ponent, upon German culture — in other words, 
as Hermann says, upon " all those influences 
to which both the intellectual and material 
condition and development of the German 
people are subject." Henceforth German 
culture became Kaiserism. The great 
" Kultur-mission " of the German people 
among the nations of the earth, of which 
German leaders tell us, is nothing more nor 
less than the attempt to realize the infamous 
purpose of the Hohenzollerns — namely, that 
of seizing, by the use of murder, secret cunning, 
and barbarous cruelty, the property and 
persons of the other nations of the earth for 
the gross material profit of Germans and their 
Prussian masters. Hence it is not really 
a misuse of terms when Germans claim that 
" the higher interests of German Kultur " 
justify and ennoble the burning of Louvain 
and Malines, the bombardment of the cathe- 
dral of Rheims, and the torture and slaughter 
of Belgian women, children, and old men. 
Their claim is not a mock nor an excuse. 
These methods of " Rightfulness " and bar- 
barism are approved by the Kaiser, and are, 
in fact, an integral part of the culture with 
which the German people now are saturated. 
It should perhaps be called " Hohenzollern 
Kultur " rather than " German Kultur," for 
it has been created by the Hohenzollerns, 
and will cease when they are obliterated. 

The Emperor William II. 
It is a truly marvellous thing that this man, 
who suffers from a morbid condition of both 
body and brain, whom most Englishmen 
have regarded as a megalomaniac, should have 
been able to infect the whole German people 
with his insane audacity and his infamous 
lack of honour and morality. It implies great 
and exceptional understanding, vast patience, 
and histrionic capacity on his part. It is 
obvious that concurrently there must have 
been a childish receptivity, a dullness of mind, 
and a helpless subservience widely spread 
among the German people, who have been 
hypnotized by the Kaiser and used by him for 
his mad projects. Before the war of 1870-71 
comparatively few of the Germans had been 
converted by the Prussians, whom, as a rule, 
they hated. They were an easygoing, senti- 
mental, hard-working, fairly honest people 
whom no one disliked. Their complete change 



of attitude and action under the present Kaiser 
is like nothing so much as the sudden trans- 
formation which we have seen in this country 
of large numbers of hitherto decent, well- 
behaved, and harmless women into 
mad viragoes, burning houses and breaking 
windows, and shouting " Votes for women ! " 
There is more than a mere superficial resem- 
blance between these mad women and the 
deluded German people who burn and ravage 
their neighbours' lands, shouting, " Kultur I" 
and " Deutschland fiber alles ! " Just as we 
find the leading suffragettes declaring the 
superiority of women to men in morals and 
intelligence, so do we find leading Germans, 
such as Dr. Adorf Lasson, Privy Councillor 
and Professor of Philosophy in the University 
of Berlin, deliberately and solemnly proclaim- 
ing " the immeasurable superiority of Germany 
and the Germans in morals and intelligence to 
all the other nations and peoples of the world." 
An American writer in the New York Times 
of October 30th observes that the letter in 
which Professor Lasson makes this claim on 
behalf of Germany "goes to the furthest 
conceivable limits of vanity, arrogance, and 
bad manners." He discusses the question 
of Lasson's sanity. 

Kaiserism, the German " culture " of to-day, 
is, of course, the sequel of the great victory over 
France in 1870-71. It is based on the con- 
viction of invincibility, which was carefully 
nurtured in the German mind after the war, 
and has been favoured by the demoralizing 
effect of the enormous commercial prosperity 
which too rapidly followed. The enjoyment 
of the plunder brought into German hands 
by the robbery of France led to the dishonest 
craving for more, which, it seemed, was ready, 
in Belgium, France, and England, to the hand 
of a well-armed and unscrupulous thief. 

The Kaiser has appreciated and taken full 
advantage of the sudden convulsion of 
German thought and feeling due to the 
portentous victories of 1870-71. His special 
talent has consisted in throwing a mixed 
glamour of old German romance, of Lutheran 
godliness, of military and professorial omnis- 
cience around a purpose so sordid and blood- 
thirsty that the majority of the German 
people could not have tolerated it had they 
not been befooled and had they not, in 
addition to that, been held down by an 
irresistible military organization. Such is 
the German Kultur of to-day and its mission. 

The Germans' Place in Art and in Science. 
Apart from the consideration of the charac- 
ristics and significance of the present phase 

of German culture with which we have, so far, 
been concerned, it is interesting to examine, 
however briefly, the special " culture " in the 
different branches of Art and of Science 
which existed in Germany in the last century, 
both before and since the blight of Prussian 
Kaiserism descended on her. Racial qualities, 
together with political and social conditions 
and the influences of past history, determine 
the relative excellence and fecundity of 
different nationalities in different branches of 
artistic creation and scientific discovery. 
Taking them all into consideration it is the 
fact that the Germans have not been, as a 
people, more generally productive in these 
matters than their neighbours in other 
European lands, but, so far as quality rather 
than quantity is in question, rather less so. 
Probably the restriction of capacity to a 
gifted few among the population, contrasted 
with a vast majority incapable of either 
production or appreciation, is more marked 
m Germany than in Italy, France, or Britain. 
The distinctive excellence in the nineteenth 
century of Germany, including German 
Austria, has been in music. If we were to 
attempt to estimate closely the influence of 
actual " race " in these matters we should 
become hopelessly involved, for our modern 
nationalities are mixtures of many races, of 
which one may be predominant in number 
and another in influence. Beethoven, the 
greatest of all composers of music, was of 
Flemish descent; other great German 
musicians were of Jewish race, others Slavonic, 
others Hungarian. The ethnological ques- 
tions must be left aside in estimating the 
value of the contributions of a people to art 
or to science. The important fact is that it 
was under German conditions of life, among 
German people — in fact, as results of the 
" German culture " of their day, that Bach, 
Mozart, Handel, Beethoven, Schubert, Schu- 
mann, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Wagner 
(not to mention others) existed and accom- 
plished their work. No present aberration ot 
German culture can remove the glory of these 
great creators from the German name. Such 
was Germany. It is noted by those most 
competent to make such an observation that 
Germany has produced no great composers 
to compare with these since the war of 1870- 
71 and the establishment of the Hohenzollern 
Kultur. In the nineteenth century both 
Italy and France also produced great musical 
composers whose works possess a charm 
distinct from that of the Germans. It is in 
Russia that the further development of music 
is now proceeding .OF MICHIGAN 






Whilst the Germans have been the greatest 
of the nations in music they have been almost 
negligible in painting and sculpture lor more 
than a hundred years- Also in the pure art 
of literary expression — putting aside lyrical 
and dramatic poetry — Germany has no 

distinction, no recognition beyond her own 
borders. Goethe, who belongs rather to the 
eighteenth than the nineteenth century, not 
only was the author of delightful songs, but 
a great dramatist and. prose- writer- He was 
singJAWnj^RijrKIik^ 1 RlA^I WrfJlliel*W German in his 



wide range of study in both art and science, 
and in his want of interest in war and 
patriotic struggles. Heine, the only great 
German lyric poet of the nineteenth century, 
was a delightful and keen-witted Jew. He 
was a bitter enemy of the Prussian tyranny 
and had to suffer exile in France in order to 
escape Prussian vengeance. 

In the study of history, philology, and the 
natural sciences the Germans have attained 
great reputation and distinction during the 
past century, but this distinction does not 
arise from the occurrence among them of 
men of great original and creative gift such 
as are their musicians, but rather from a 
remarkable tendency to laborious and patient 
accumulation of detailed knowledge which 
has been cultivated and organized by the 
German University system. The large number 
of persons thus employed by the State in 
scientific research has led to a large output, 
but not to originality. 

It is true that the Germans have, more 
than other peoples, a tendency to mysticism 
and a gift for the speculations of metaphysics, 
in which their University professors have a 
very high reputation among those who value 
such efforts of ingenuity. But in the field of 
scientific research, whether directed to human 
" history " and development or to the 
sciences known as biology, geology, chemistry, 
physics, and astronomy, the Germans, in the 
past century, have not produced first-class 
discoverers or pioneers in any marked pro- 
portion. Scientific discovery may be divided 
into two kinds — first, that which is the result 
of bold, independent speculation confirmed 
by ingenious experiment or observation, and 
secondly, that which consists in applying the 
result of such original discovery and theory 
due to others — to additional instances, extend- 
ing its application and correcting and estab- 
lishing it in detail. A large army of trained 
workers devoid of any special insight or 
talent, but steadily working under profes- 
sorial direction, is conducive to this second 
and inferior kind of discovery. Such an 
army is provided by the organization of the 
laboratories in German Universities. Thus 
we get a voluminous output of useful scientific 
work from Germany, but proportionately 
little or no discovery of great importance. 
Such workers are often less effective than 
they might be when, as is largely the 
case in Germany, they are specialists 
ignorant of subjects having important bear- 
ings on that to which they devote them- 
selves. They thus fail to make real pro- 
gress in discovery and often fall into 

ludicrous blunders and misconceptions through 

The nineteenth century, inheriting the great 
achievements of earlier Italian and English 
discoverers, was a period of extraordinarily 
abundant discovery in all branches of 
science and of the formulation of great 
generalizations which changed man's con- 
ception of his own nature and history and 
of that of the universe around him. The 
Germans have not borne a large part — 
certainly not so large a share as either France 
or England — in the making of these dis- 
coveries. Their present leaders and publicists 
are so filled with conceit and illusion that 
they foolishly and ignorantly boast, and would 
lead their followers to imagine, that all science, 
all knowledge, all progress has been made by 
Germans. The reverse of this is the truth. 
Comparatively few discoveries of great im- 
portance in science have been made by 
Germans or in German laboratories, though 
Germans have worked up and followed out 
the discoveries made by other peoples. 

The most important scientific discovery 
made in Germany in the nineteenth century, 
and one which is truly brilliant in the results 
which have followed from it in many different 
directions, is that of " spectrum analysis " — 
the detection and recognition of the chemical 
elements by means of the bright lines which 
are characteristic of the spectrum of the light 
given off by each when in the incandescent 
state, and the identification of these bright 
lines with the innumerable dark lines of the 
solar spectrum. That is the discovery of 
Kirschoff and Bunsen in i860, following up 
the earlier observations of another German — 

Spectrum analysis at once gave us what 
the philosopher Comte had selected as an 
example of a thing which was conceivable 
and yet impossible — namely, the knowledge 
of the chemical elements existing in the sun. 
In the hands of English astronomers it has 
led to other most unexpected knowledge. 

With this exception the Germans of the 
nineteenth century have not made funda- 
mental discoveries in physics or chemistry, 
such as those due to Humphry Davy, Oersted, 
Faraday, Dalton (the atomic theory), Avo- 
gadro, Joule (the mechanical theory of heat), 
Thomas Graham (osmosis and the colloid 
state), Stokes (fluorescence), and the French 
investigators, Gay Lussac, Regnault, Fizeau, 
and Foucault (velocity of light). 

On the other hand, they have produced many 
contributors to chemical science of consider- 
able merit, such as Wohle", Liebig, Bunsen t 



. ^ -■•■'■ 




,v fe 

and Hoffman, who stand side by side with 
Laurent and Gerhardt, Marccllin Berthelot, 
Franklandj and others of non-German nation- 
ality. In physics the most distinguished 
German investigator and writer of the later 
half of the past century was Helmholtz. He 
fKzcupies a worthy place alongside the remark- 
able Cambridge filiation of physicists, Stokes, 

Kelvinj Maxwell, Rayleigh, and J. J, Thorn* 
son, but his work does not equal in import- 
ance that of any one of the latter. When 
we come to the Kaiser Wilhelm period (the 
last five-and- twenty years) it is distinctly 
the fact that in the great fields of chemistry 
and physic? the number of contributions made 
by Germans of really original discovery, in 



proportion to those made by other nation- 
alities, has diminished rather than increased. 
And I gather from competent critics that 
this is true also of philological and historical 
investigation. It is noticeable that German 
investigators have had little or no share 
in the epoch - making discovery of radio- 
activity, or of radium itself, and its astouish- 
ing properties, which is due firstly to 
the French savants, Henri Becquerel (1896) 
and Curie (1898), and in its later stages to 
the Englishmen, Rutherford, Ramsay, and 
Soddy. The new gaseous element, argon, 
a constituent of the atmosphere, was dis- 
covered by Rayleigh and Ramsay, and other 
new gaseous elements by the latter. The 
Germans have had no part in these funda- 
mental discoveries, made in quite recent years. 

Though credit is due and is given to the 
German, Rontgen, for the discovery of the 
penetrating X-rays of light, it is yet the fact 
that it was the investigations and discoveries 
of Sir William Crookes (to whom we also 
owe the discovery of a new metallic element, 
thallium) which immediately led Rontgen to 
the study of the special and useful X-rays. 
In the Kaiser period we have had no work 
in the great science of chemistry from the 
Germans approaching in importance to the 
theoretical consideration of the serial relations 
of the elements as indicated by their atomic 
weights, published in the same period by the 
Russian Mendeteeff ; nor such fine investiga- 
tion of pure scientific interest as that of the 
French chemist Moissan, on the element 
fluorine, and on the artificial production of 
diamonds. The German chemists of the 
empire have, it is true, been very busy, and 
have done interesting and ingenious work in 
what is called the synthesis of chemical 
substances of organic origin — that is to say, 
the building up in the laboratory from avail- 
able commercial materials of elaborate com- 
pounds ordinarily built up in the course of 
the life of plants. Such, for instance, are 
the colouring matter of madder and of indigo. 
The fact that the success of these syntheses 
is a matter of vast commercial profit and of 
only minor scientific significance, because 
involving no new conceptions or methods, is 
characteristic of modern German work. 

When we inquire as to the original and 
path-breaking discoveries of the nineteenth 
century in other sciences, such as geology, 
zoology, botany, and physiology, we find that 
the Germans took a fair and useful share in 
some of them before 1870, but that since then 
a decline in the scientific interest attaching 
to their work is observable. Geology in the 

earlier part of the century was put on a sound 
footing by the Scotsman, Charles Lyell, and 
has never been much advanced by German 
workers. The discovery of the former exten- 
sion of glaciers and of the recent existence of 
a glacial period in the northern hemisphere is 
due to the Swiss naturalist, Louis Agassiz. 
It was Cuvier, the great French zoologist, who 
made the first discoveries in palaeontology, 
the history of life on the earth, and of the 
ancestral forms of living animals and plants. 
Its most striking later developments have 
been due to English, French, and American 
naturalists. The most revolutionary of all 
such discoveries as to life on the earth in past 
geologic ages are those by which it has been 
established that man has existed for at least 
half a million years on this planet, and has 
left his flint implements and other works of 
art and handicraft in cave deposits and 
gravels of vast age. The convincing evidence 
on this subject collected by the French 
antiquary, Boucher de Perthes, was accepted 
by the scientific world in 1859, and since then 
the French have pursued the subject with 
splendid results. English contributions have 
also been important, but nothing of any 
originality has been made by a German. 

In the exploration of the deep sea and of 
distant lands, the pioneer work in the last 
hundred years has been done by the English 
and the French. The Germans have, as usual, 
failed to show any initiative. 

The theory of the origin of species is an 
outcome of such exploration and is due to 
the Englishmen, Darwin and Wallace. Great 
as is, and has been, its influence on all lines 
of thought, the Germans have had little or 
nothing to do with it beyond accepting it with 
enthusiasm at first, and then misunderstanding 
and misrepresenting it. Ernst Haeckel, of 
Jena, built himself up on it, and so did 
August Weissman, of Freiburg. 

There are in the last century great German 
names in the study of the comparative 
anatomy of animals, those of Johannes Miiller 
and Carl Gegenbaur, and in botany there are 
those of De Bary and Cohn, standing among 
the very first. These great teachers perhaps 
surpass any of their contemporaries in other 
countries in the importance of their work and 
their influence on the pupils who worked in 
their laboratories and became in their turn 
great teachers. But the Germans have pro- 
duced no man with so great an originality 
and importance in biological discovery as 
Charles Darwin, nor one who has had so 
great an influence on the thought of the 
whole civilized world. Nor have they had a 



discoverer and great public teacher of such 
accomplishment, of so lucid and arresting an 
appeal, and of so richly stored and so cultured 
a mind as Huxley. No German discovery in 
zoology has been so important in its influence 
on all subsequent work as that of the Russian, 
Kowalewsky, in 1866, as to the essential 
identity of the growth from the egg of 
the Ascidian with that of the vertebrate 

In botany, though the Germans have led 
(not far in front of the French) in the last 
century, in regard to the discovery of the 
minute structure of plants and of the life 
histories of the microscopic moulds and algae, 
they have no one who can be placed alongside 
of Joseph Hooker, the traveller-botanist, the 
discoverer of great principles arising from the 
geographical distribution of the earth's flora, 
and the organizer and director of the apparatus 
necessary for botanical investigations — namely, 
the workshops, herbarium, and living collec- 
tions of the Royal Gardens at Kew, the most 
perfect botanical institution in the world, and 
the envy of all nations. 

In physiology and the study of the activities 
of the various organs of the animal body in 
disease as well as in health, the importance 
given in the numerous German Universities 
to the organization of the making of new 
knowledge by the professors and their pupils 
has led to an abundant and valuable output. 
Johannes Miiller, the greatest of his day, was 
professor of human anatomy, comparative 
anatomy, and of physiology in Berlin from 
1833 to 1858. His pupils, Du Bois Reymond 
and Karl Ludwig, have been the leaders of 
physiological research. Another, Theodore 
Schwann, is renowned for his cell-theory of 
organic structure, and was the first to show 
that putrescence is due to the living chemical 
activity of bacteria. 

The Germans did not appreciate and 
pursue the discovery of their compatriot 
Schwann, and consequently the chief merit 
in the saving of humanity from the ravages 
of bacterial disease belongs to Pasteur. 
Lister, by conclusive experiment, showed 
that Pasteur's conclusions must be applied 
to the explanation of the deadly suppuration 
of wounds, and introduced the antiseptic 
system of surgery by which microbes are 
prevented from gaining access to wounded 
surfaces. The greatest recent advances in 
the germ-theory of disease and immunity 
have been made in the Institut Pasteur in 
Paris by Metschnikoff, the discoverer of the 
part played by those corpuscles of the blood 
and tissues known as " phagocytes." 

Digitized by Google 

Whilst 1 have endeavoured to point out in 
this article the deplorable change which has 
taken place in " German culture " in the last 
forty years, and the baselessness of the 
assertions made by the reckless and arrogant 
trumpeters of Berlin as to the superiority of 
Germany in Art and in Science over other 
nations — a claim which, by its mere 
audacity and insolence, is apt to impose 
on the general public — I cannot put down 
my pen without recording my affectionate 
regard for the Germans of a past generation 
with whom I studied in the old days, and 
my debt to the examples in thoroughness 
of work and in organization of scientific 
investigation by which I benefited in German 
laboratories at a time when there were few 
or no laboratories in England. I worked 
with Strieker in Vienna in the winter of 
1869-70, with Ludwig in Leipzig in the 
winter of 1871, and in Jena, with Haeckel 
and Gegenbaur, in the spring of 187 1. The 
old traditional " culture " of the Germans 
was then still flourishing. Simplicity of 
life, love of music, and thoroughness, 
industry, and unbounded patience in intel- 
lectual work were its leading characteristics. 
I remember that shortly after the German 
empire had been proclaimed at Versailles 
my venerated teacher, Professor Karl 
Ludwig — in whose laboratory I was carry- 
ing on researches in experimental physio- 
logy, together with my life-long friend, 
H. P. Bowditch (afterwards professor at 
Harvard, Mass.), and others since known 
to fame — asked me to take a country 
walk with him. As we strolled along 
he said; " Now, dear friend, your fellow- 
countrymen will no longer say, as they did of 
Prince Albert, the Consort of your Queen, 
' He is only a German.' " I assured the 
professor that I and my friends had no such 
feeling as was suggested by the words " only 
a German/' but, on the contrary, a great 
admiration for German thoroughness and 
German intelligence. In the course of the 
following years I saw the legitimate satis- 
faction at being no longer " only a German/' 
as expressed by Ludwig, developed in a 
younger generation into ill-mannered self- 
assertion and aggressive conduct in various 
walks of life. In my student days the 
Prussians were hated in Vienna and Jena, and 
even in Saxony. They seem to have taken 
possession of the later generations and to 
have completely perverted, not only the 
manners, but the moral sense of the German 




From the Russian of 



Gerald Leake, R.BJV* 

Leonidas Andreev and Maxim Gorky are the most illustrious representatives of the Russian literature of 
to* day. Gorky's works have Become widely known in this country, but Andreev, a man of far greater power, 
has yet to be made familiar to readers of our language, 

Andreev was born in 1871 at Orel, of middle- class parents, and lost his father while he was still at college. 
His family was reduced to poverty, and Andreev attempted to solve the difficult problem of pursuing his studies 
and of gaining his living by giving lessons at a miserably small price. fH I knew black poverty/' he says. 
" during my first years at the University of St. Petersburg. [ was often hungry, and it has happened to me that 
I had nothing whatever to eat for two days at a time." 

His first attempts at writing had no success, and he was reduced to such extremities that, weary of life* he 
attempted to commit suicide, " In January, 1894/' he states, "I fired a revolver at my head, but without 
success, I did not succeed in killing myself, and during my recovery I made fresh attempts at writing, but stifJ 
without success. I did better with painting, which I had been fond of since my childhood. I painted a few 
portraits for five to ten roubles apiece/* Finally, in 1897 he was called to the Bar at Moscow, but, not suc- 
ceeding in obtaining any clients, he passed some time in reporting taw cases for the newspapers. 

At last, however, his work began to attract the notice of editors, and a year later he published the following 
story, "Was He Mad?" which proved for him to be the last of his days of privation and the beginning 
of his fame. 

This tale is a " problem story/* which, in its grimness. is quite worthy of Edgar Allan Poe. This strange 
work received the honour of a special sitting by the Institute of Bra in- Specialists of St. Petersburg, and these 
experts held & long discussion on the state of mind of the chief character in the story, The opinions of the 
leading members of the medical world were much divided. The newspapers and reviews then took up the 
discussion, which — very much as in the case of Hamlet — created a wide interest* The story is here translated 
into English for the first time. 

ON December nth, 1900, Dr. Antony 
Ignatievitch Kerjentzef , a physician, 
committed a murder, The circum- 
stances of the crime, together with 
certain occurrences which had preceded it^ 

seemed to point to some abnormality in the 
menul condition of the murderer 

Kerjentzef was taken to the Elizabeth 
Psychological Establishment for examina- 
tion -UlWWil?^ ttH?JHiS?S"Jto Uie strictest 


4 t 

,►-. ,™„ •"ytfftffjtff^ff • itrtftftfiN '-• fffft'-y 

observation of several experienced brain- 
specialists, amongst whom was the late 
Professor Djemnitsky. 

A month after his admission to the hospital 
Dr* Kerjentzef presented the specialists with a 
memorandum in which he gave explanations 
of what had happened. We print here some 
extracts from this document, which , added 
to information from other sources, formed 
the basis ol the medico-legal report. It is 
addressed to .the brain-specialists of St. 

Until this moment, gentlemen, I have 
withheld the truth, but now I feel compelled 
to reveal it. When you know it 3 you will 
understand that this affair is not so simple 
as it may appear to the superficial observer. 
It is not merely one of those acts which lead 
to the strait-jacket and the chain. It has 
an element of something infinitely more 
serious, which, I venture to think } will interest 


VoL «iix,^e. 

by CiC 


The man whom 1 killed, Alexis Constantino- 
vitch Savielof, had been my chum at school 
and at the university, although our studies 
were not the same ; for, as 'you are aware, I 
am a physician, while he qualified himself for 
the law. It can scarcely be said that I 
disliked him ; I found him always sympa- 
thetic, and 1 never had a more intimate 
friend. Yet, in spite of all his amiable 
characteristics, he was not a person capable 
of inspiring me with respect. The sweet- 
ness and amazing humility of his nature, his 
strange inconstancy of ideas and sentiments, 
the extreme violence of his ever- versatile 
opinions, compelled me to regard him as a 
child or a woman. Persons closely associated 
with him suffered often by reason of his 
temperament. At the same time — so illogical 
is human nature ! — they loved him greatly, 
and tried to find an excuse for his faults and 
for their attachment to him by labelling him 
il artistic." Such was the potency of this 
vague word that for seme time I myself 




shared the general opinion, and willingly 
condoned the little faults of Alexis. " Little/' 
I say advisedly ; for he was incapable of 
anything great, even in the way of faults. 
In proof of this I need only cite his literary 
productions, all of which are paltry and 
banal, however much they may be praised 
by certain short-sighted critics, ever on the 
look-out for new talent. They are beautiful 
nonentities, just as their author was always a 
beautiful nonentity. 

Alexis, at the time of his death, was thirty- 
one years of age ; that is to say, about a 
year and a half younger than myself. 

Alexis was married. If you have seen his 
wife only as a widow, you can form no idea 
of what she formerly was, for she has lost 
much. Her cheeks are grey, and the skin 
of her face has become lined and wrinkled 
like a worn-out glove. She loved her husband 
so much ! Her eyes, too, do not sparkle now ; 
they no longer laugh, whereas formerly they 
were always laughing. I saw her only for a 
moment, by chance, at the police-court, and 
I was struck by the change in her. She had 
not even the spirit to fling a furious glance at 
me. Poor woman ! 

Three persons only— Alexis, I, and Tatiana 
— knew that five years ago (two years before 
the marriage of Alexis) I had proposed to 
Tatiana, and had been rejected. But that 
is a stupid thing to say — that there were 
only three. Tatiana has, no doubt, a circle 
of friends, male and female, all of whom are 
perfectly well acquainted with the fact that 
Dr. Kerjentzef once desired to marry her, 
and that he suffered the humiliation of a 

I wonder if she remembers having laughed 
at that moment ? She had then so many 
occasions for laughter ! But remind her of 
this — on the fifth of September she laughed. 
If she denies it — and deny it she will — 
remind her again that she laughed. I, the 
strong man, who had never shed tears, who 
had never known fear, stood trembling before 
her. And as I stood and trembled I saw her 
bite her lip. I stretched out my arms to 
embrace her ; she raised her eyes, and those 
eyes laughed. My arms dropped. She began 
to laugh, and laughed for a long time — as 
long as it pleased her to do so. Then, how- 
ever, she apologized. 

" Pray pardon me ! " she said, and her eyes 
laughed still. I, too, smiled, and if I could 
have forgiven her for laughing, never could 
I have forgiven myself for that smile ! 

This happened on the fifth of September, 
at six o'clock in the evening by St. Petersburg 


time. I say " St. Petersburg time," because we 
were at that moment on the platform of the 
station, and I still see distinctly the great 
white dial of the clock and the position of 
its black hands ; one above, the other below. 
Moreover, Alexis was killed at six o'clock 
precisely. It is a singular coincidence, but 
one which suggests many things to a dis- 
cerning man. 

One of the reasons assigned for my intern- 
ment here is the lack of motive for the crime. 
Do you now admit the existence of a motive ? 
Obviously it was not jealousy. That pre- 
supposes an ardent temperament, not that 
of a cold-natured and reasonable man such 
as I am. Revenge ? Yes, that is more like 
it, if one must needs employ an old word 
to define a new and unknown feeling. It is 
necessary to say that Tatiana for the second 
time proved me in the wrong — a thing which 
has always angered me. Knowing Alexis so 
well, I felt sure that Tatiana, married to him, 
would be very unhappy, and would regret 
her refusal of me. For this reason I had done 
all in my power to forward her marriage with 
Alexis, who at the time of my proposal was 
already in love with her. Only a month before 
his tragic death he had said to me : — 

" I owe my happiness to you. Is it not 
so, Tania ? " he added, turning towards his 

She looked at me and murmured, " Yes." 
Her eyes smiled. I smiled also. We all 
laughed as Alexis embraced Tatiana — for they 
had no shyness or restraint before me. 

" Yes, my friend," said Alexis, " you lost the 

This jest, so out of place, and so utterly 
tactless, shortened his life by a week at least 
I had at first decided not to kill him until 
December the eighteenth. 

Yes, married life was sweet to those two. 
Tatiana, especially, was very happy. Alexis 
did not love her passionately ; he was, indeed, 
incapable of any deep affection. His " hobby " 
was literature, with which he occupied himself 
to the partial exclusion of domesticities. But 
she ! She loved only him, and lived for him 
alone. Then, too, he was not in good health. 
He had frequent headaches ; he suffered from 
insomnia, and this evidently worried him. 
But to nurse him in his illnesses and to satisfy 
his caprices was blessedness supreme for 
Tatiana. Because, when a woman loves, her 
personality is completely submerged. 

Thus every day I saw her smiling face — 
young, beautiful, care-free. And I thought, 
" It is / who am the cause of this. I willed 
to chain her to an unworthy husband in 




order that she might realize what she had 
lost by rejecting me, and, instead of that, I 
have given her the man whom she loved ! " 
You will understand the singularity of my 
position. She was more intellectual than her 
husband. She liked to talk with me, and 
after we had conversed together she would 
quite happily leave me for her husband's 

I cannot recollect when the idea of killing 
Alexis first entered my head ; I only know 
that it became at once as familiar as though 
it had been born with me. I know that I 
had a strong desire to inflict suffering upon 
Tatiana, and that at first I considered 
many other means of achieving my object 
—means less dangerous for Alexis. I have 
always been opposed to needless cruelty. 

Concerning the taking of a man's life I had 
no scruples. I knew that this was a crime 
severely punished by the law. But then 
nearly all our actions are crimes of one sort 
or another. 

I had no fear of myself, and that is the 
great thing. For the murderer, the criminal, 
the supreme terror is not that of the police, 
the judge, or the sentence. It is himself that 
he has to fear — his nerves, the powerful pro- 
testation of his whole being, reared, as it has 
been, in conformity with certain traditions. 
I have pondered long upon this subject. I 
have minutely studied it, recalling my own 
experiences after the murder. 

I do not say that 1 arrived at an absolute 
certainty of my own calmness and stability — 
such an assurance could scarcely come to a 
thoughtful man who has regard to all pos- 
sibilities. But after carefully collecting and 
weighing all the data supplied by my past, 
and taking into account my will-power, the 
perfect steadiness of my nerves, my profound 
and sincere contempt for current moral values, 
I felt that I could reckon with comparative 
certainty upon the success of my enterprise. 

And now that my purpose has been accom- 
plished, does my conscience reproach me ? 
Have I any remorse, any feeling of repentance ? 
Absolutely none. 

I feel pain — indeed, horrible pain — such as 
no other man in the world has ever experi- 
enced, and my hair is turning grey. But that 
is another thing. Quite another thing. Some- 
thing terrible, unexpected, incredible in its 
homble simplicity. 


This was the problem which I had to solve. 
1 had to kill Alexis. I wished Tatiana to 
know that it was I who had killed her 

husband. At the same time, I desired to avoid 
the legal penalty of my act. To say nothing 
of the fact that my punishment would afford 
needless satisfaction to Tatiana, I had (like 
most other people) a decided disinclination 
to go to prison. I have a great love of life. 

I love to see the golden wine sparkling in 
the delicately- wrought glass ; I love to stretch 
my weary limbs on a soft bed ; I love to 
breathe the pure air of spring, to contemplate 
glorious sunsets, to read interesting and intel- 
ligently-written books. I love myself — the 
strength of my muscles, the clearness and 
accuracy of my thought. I love to realize 
my aloneness, to know that no curious eye can 
penetrate the depths of my soul — the black 
gulfs on whose brink the brain reels. I have 
never understood or experienced the thing 
which people call the " weariness " of life. 

Moreover, it should have been easy for me 
to escape punishment. There are thousands 
of ways in which you can secretly and imper- 
ceptibly kill a man, especially if you are a 
doctor, as I am. Amongst other plans which I 
considered and rejected, there was one which 
I dwelt upon for a long time. I thought that 
I would inoculate Alexis with an incurable 
and repulsive disease. But the inconveniences 
of this plan were obvious. Not to mention 
the prolonged agony of the victim, there 
would have been something inartistic and 
coarse in the employment of such a means as 
this. It was not intellectual enough. And 
then, after all, Tatiana would still have 
enjoyed a certain amount of happiness, even 
in the illness of her husband. What greatly 
complicated my problem was the absolute 
necessity that she should know whose hand 
had struck the blow. But only cowards fear 
obstacles ; to souls of my stamp they are a 

Chance, that great ally of the wise, came 
to my aid. And here, gentlemen, I would 
call your attention particularly to one detail. 
It was just chance — that is, an exterior thing 
independent of my will — which served me as 
a foundation, and furnished me with the idea 
for the events which followed. I read in a 
newspaper of a cashier or employS of some 
sort (the paper is probably still in my house, 
unless the magistrate has it) who pretended 
an epileptic fit, during which, according to his 
own account, he had lost the money which 
in reality he had stolen. The man was a 
coward ; he confessed his deed, and even told 
where he had hidden the money. But the 
idea, in itself, was neither a bad nor an 
impracticable one To sham madness, to kill 

Ate * Mlferffffft 1 3berration > then to 



recover my reason — such was the plan which, 
when I read this story, sprang instantly into 
my mind. At this period I — like every other 
physician who has not made a speciality of 
it — had a mere superficial knowledge of 
psychology. I spent a year in reading and 
considering all publications bearing on this 
subject. By the end of that time I had arrived 
at the conclusion that my plan was perfectly 

The first thing to which experts should 
direct their attention is the influence of 
heredity, and, to my great joy, my heredity 
obligingly accommodated itself to my wishes. 
My father was addicted to alcohol, one of my 
uncles died in a lunatic asylum, and my only 
sister Anna, whom I had lost, was afflicted 
with epilepsy. 

It seemed to me not very difficult to play 
the part of a maniac. Some indispensable 
information I had already gleaned from books ; 
this I should have to supplement with inven- 
tions of my own, as is the practice of every 
good actor in each of his roles. 

Already, while my scheme was as yet in 
its earliest stage, a thought came to me 
which certainly would never have entered the 
mind of a maniac. J thought of the terrible 
danger of my experiments. You will under- 
stand my meaning. Insanity is a fire with 
which it is perilous to play. Even were 
you to kindle a flame in a cave filled with 
gunpowder, you would be in far greater safety 
than when the slightest fear of madness slips 
into your brain. And I knew it ! I knew it ! 
But what signifies danger to the courageous 
man ? 


You now understand the nature of the 
alarming fit of madness which seized me at a 
dinner-party given by the Karguanofs. This, 
my first experiment, succeeded beyond my 
expectation. One would have said that all 
the persons present knew beforehand what 
was going to happen. They behaved as if 
the sudden dementia of an apparently healthy 
man were a quite natural and ordinary occur- 
rence — just what you might expect ! Nobody 
seemed surprised ; all played into my hand, 
colouring my acting according to their own 
fancy. Seldom has a " star " been surrounded 
with such an excellent galaxy as was for me 
this assembly of naive, foolish, credulous 
people. Have they told you that I was 
frightfully pale, and that my forehead was 
bathed in a cold sweat ? And how the fire 
of madness blazed in my black eyes ? When, 
afterwards, they described to me all their 

observations, I assumed a gloomy and 
dejected expression, but my soul quivered 
with pride, joy, and scorn. 

Tatiana and her husband were not present 
at the party. I do not know whether you 
have remarked this circumstance. It was 
not by chance that I chose this occasion for 
my little performance. I was afraid of 
alarming Tatiana, or — what would have 
been still worse — of arousing her suspicions. 
For if in the whole world there existed a 
human being capable of detecting me, un- 
doubtedly it was she — she alone. 

Nothing, in fact, was left to chance. On the 
contrary, every detail — even the most insig- 
nificant — had been most carefully studied. I 
chose the dinner-time for my " attack," 
because then all the guests would be assembled 
and also because they would then be excited 
by wine. I placed myself at the end of the 
table farthest from the lighted chandeliers, 
for I wished neither to cause a conflagration 
nor to burn my nose. 

I got Pavel Petrovitch Pospielof to sit 
beside me. I had long had a strong desire 
to annoy this fat and disgusting creature, 
who is particularly repulsive when he eats. 
When for the first time I saw him engaged in 
this occupation, it occurred to me that the 
act of eating could be an immorality. My plan 
worked smoothly ; all went off well. And 
probably no one noticed that the plate 
smashed by my fist had been covered with a 
napkin that I might avoid cutting my hand. 

The farce, in short, was extremely crude, 
stupid even ; but it was just this quality 
upon which I had relied. A more refined 
play would not have been understood. I 
began by waving my arms about, and talking 
with " excitation " to Pavel Petrovitch, who 
in his amazement opened his little eyes as 
widely as possible. Then I subsided into a 
" concentrated melancholy." 

" What is the matter with you, Antony ? " 
inquired Irene Pavlovna, affably. " Why are 
you so gloomy ? " 

When all eyes were turned on me I smiled a 
tragic smile. 

" Are you not well ? " 

" Not very well. I feel dizzy ; my head 
swims. But pray do not disquiet yourself ! 
It will pass off." 

My hostess was reassured, but Pavel 
Petrovitch eyed me sideways with suspicion 
and disapproval. A moment later, as with 
an air of beatitude he was raising a glass of 
wine to his lips, I smashed the glass right 
under his nose, then brought down my fist 
with a bang upon my plate. The fragments 



flew about- Pavel Fetroviteh, grumbling 
and grunting, fussed around, The ladies 
squealed, and T, clenching my teeth, dragged 
off the table-cloth, with all that was on it. 
It w ne ol broad comedy, 1 assure you ! 

J rouiiil mc. They 

caught hold of my arms, they brought ] 
water , they seated me in an arm-chair, whi 
I growled viciously (like a tiger in the Zoolo 
cal Gardens) and rolled my eyes. And it v 
all so ridfcvJoiUTij snd those who surround 
rir were so stupid /that I felt seriously tempi 



to avail myself of the privileges which my 
present position afforded me and to strike 
out and hit them on the nose. Naturally, 
however, I restrained myself. 

Then followed my gradual " return to 
consciousness ," to the accompaniment of 
deeply-drawn breaths, attacks of faintness, 
the grinding of teeth, and, finally, a feeble 
voice asking such questions as these : — 

" Where am I ? What has happened ? " 

Even that insipid stock phrase, " Where 
am I ? " hit the mark with such people as 
these, and three, at least, of the idiots took 
upon themselves to enlighten me. 

"At the Karguanofs'," they said. Then, 
in a coaxing tone : " Dear doctor, you know 
who Irene Pavlovna Karguanof is ? " 

Positively they were unworthy to assist at 
the performance of my excellent comedy ! 

My second fit of insanity took place a 
month after the first. This one had not been 
so well studied ; it was, moreover, super- 
fluous, seeing that I had a general plan. I 
had had no intention of giving another re- 
hearsal that evening, but when circumstances 
were so favourable it would have been sheer 
stupidity not to take advantage of them. I 
recollect very well everything that took place. 
Again I was spending the evening at the house 
of an acquaintance. We were all seated in 
the drawing-room, engaged in general con- 
versation, when I suddenly felt very sad. 
I saw with perfect clearness — as one seldom 
does see — my own position. I was a stranger 
to all these people. I was quite alone in the 
world, shut up for ever in the prison of my 
own consciousness. My next sensation was 
that of repugnance for those about me. Fury 
seized me, and I began to strike out with my 
fists, and to shout exceedingly impolite words. 
With what joy I saw the faces of the company 
whiten with terror ! 

" Wretches ! " I cried. " Wretches ! 

Creatures impure yet self-satisfied ! Tainted 
souls ! I detest you ! " 

And in grim earnest I fought, at first with 
the guests, afterwards with their footmen and 
coachmen. Candidly, I confess that I enjoyed 
hitting them and telling them to their faces 
what they were. Is, then, he who proclaims 
the truth a maniac ? I assure you, gentle- 
men, that I was conscious of everything, that 
I felt under my hands living bodies to which I 
was causing pain. That night, alone in my 
own home, I laughed to myself as I thought, 
" What a marvellous actor I am!" Then I 
went to bed, and during the night I read a 
book. I can even give you the author's 

name — Guy de Maupassant. As always, he 
gave me pleasure, and after finishing the tale 
I slept like a child. Do madmen read books, 
gentlemen ? Do they take pleasure in them ? 
And, after reading them, do they sleep like 
children ? 

Mad people do not sleep. They suffer, and 
all is trouble in their brain. Yes, all becomes 
troubled, clouded, reels and falls. They want 
to yell, to scratch, to gnaw their hands. 
They want to go down on all-fours and crawl 
softly, softly, and then to spring up suddenly 
and cry, " Ha ! ha ! " 

And to laugh. And to yell. To raise the 
head thus, and to howl for a long, long time, 
plaintively, plaintively. 

Yes, yes. 

And I slept like a child. Do madmen sleep 
like children ? 


After my second seizure people began to be 
afraid of me. They ceased to invite me to 
their houses. When by chance I met any of 
my acquaintances they screwed up their 
faces, smiled a sickly smile, and said, in a 
significant tone : — 

" Well, my friend, how are you ? " 

At that time I could have perpetrated any 
sort of iniquity without being blamed for it. 
But I still desired to receive an official 
absolution for past and a permission for future 
sins ; in other words, a medical and scientific 
pronouncement upon my condition. 

Here also I resolved to await the concur- 
rence of circumstances which might make my 
consultation of a mental specialist appear a 
mere matter of chance, or even of humouring 
a friend. Though this, perhaps, was a needless 
refinement, the fact that it was Tatiana and 
her husband who sent me to the doctor gave, 
to my thinking, an artistic finishing touch to 
my plot. 

" I implore you to go to the doctor, dear 
Antony ! " said Tatiana. Never before had 
she called me " dear " ; I had to pass for a 
maniac in order to be thus favoured ! 

" Very well, dear Tatiana ; I will go," I 
replied, submissively. We three — Tatiana, 
Alexis, and I — were in the study which was 
to be the scene of the murder. 

" Yes, Antony, you must go without fail," 
said Alexis, authoritatively, " or Heaven 
knows what you will do next ! " 

" But what could I do ? " I asked, in a 
meek, timid tone, seeking to exonerate myself 
in the eyes of my severe friend. 

" Who knows ? You might break some- 
body's head'wg" 




I was turning about in my hands a heavy 
paper-weight of bronze. I looked at Alexis, 
then at the paper-weight, as I said : — 

44 Somebody's head ? You say the head ? " 

" Why, yes, the head ! You will take up 
some such object as that, and the deed will 
be done ! " 

This was becoming interesting. // was 
that very head which I proposed to break with 
that very " object " ; and now that same head 
had imagined the thing exactly as it was shortly 
to come to pass. The owner of the head voiced 
its thought with a careless smile. And yet 
there are people who believe in presentiments ! 
What folly ! 

" One could scarcely do much mischief 
with this object," I said. " It is too light." 

" What do you say ? Too light ? " ex- 
claimed Alexis, somewhat excitedly. 

He took the paper-weight from me, and, 
holding it by its small handle, he waved it 
to and fro several times. " Try it ! " he said 
to me. 

14 But I see quite well/' said I. 

" No. Do it yourself, and then you will 

With a bad grace, and yet with a smile, 
I took the heavy paper-weight from him. 
But then Tatiana interfered. Pale, with 
trembling lips, she said, or rather cried out : — 

" Alexis, stop that ! Alexis, stop that ! " 

44 Why, what is the matter, Tania ? " he 
asked, in astonishment. 

44 Stop doing that ! You know that I dis- 
like jests of that kind." 

Then we all laughed, and the paper-weight 
was put back on the table. 

My visit to Professor T was just what 

I had expected it to be. He was very cautious 
and chose discreet expressions, but he was 
extremely grave and serious. He inquired 
whether I had relatives who could take care 
of me ; he advised me to rest at home and 
to keep quiet. Using the privilege of my pro- 
fession, I argued a little with him, and if 
hitherto he had had any doubts concerning 
my condition, they were assuredly set at 
rest when I had the audacity to disagree with 
him. From that moment I was, in his 
opinion, hopelessly insane. I venture to 
hope, gentlemen, that you will not attach 
too much importance to this harmless farce 
played at the expense of one of your own 
class. As a scholar and scientist, Professor 

T is undoubtedly deserving of the greatest 


From the moment that the life of Alexis 
lay, as it were, in my hands I was most anxious 
about his health. Although not strong, he 

was unpardonably careless of himself. He 
would not wear flannel ; he went out in the 
wettest of weather without goloshes. For- 
tunately Tatiana allayed my anxiety. She 
took the trouble to climb my stairs in order 
to inform me that Alexis was in good health, 
and had even slept well — an unusual thing 
for him. I, delighted, asked Tatiana to take 
a book from me to her husband. It was a 
rare book, and one which he had long desired 
to have. Perhaps the making of this gift 
was an error on my part (I might have been 
accused of trying to put people on the wrong 
scent), but so strong was my wish to give 
pleasure to Alexis that I decided to run the 
small risk. 

During tliis interview with Tatiana I 
behaved very naturally and amiably, thus 
producing a favourable impression. Neither 
she nor Alexis had witnessed either of my fits, 
and it would have been difficult — impossible 
even — for them to think of me as a maniac. 

" Come to see us," said Tatiana, as she took 
leave of me. 

44 1 cannot," I said, smiling ; 44 the doctor 
has forbidden me to do so." 

44 What nonsense ! You can come to us. 
It is the same tiling as being at home, and 
Alexis is dying to see you ! " 

So I promised to go, and never have I 
made a promise with such absolute certainty 
of keeping it ! 

The bronze paper-weight was in its place 
when, on December nth, at five o'clock in 
the evening, I entered the study of Alexis. 
At this time, before dinner — they dined at 
seven — Alexis and Tatiana were at leisure. 
They were very glad to see me. 

44 Thank you for the book, my friend," said 
Alexis, pressing my hand. " I should have 
come to see you myself, if Tatiana had not 
assured me that you had completely recovered. 
We are going to the theatre to-night. Will 
you accompany us ? " 

Then we drifted into general conversation. 
I spoke with exactitude and precision, in 
clearly-cut sentences. Yet all the time I kept 
my eye on the short hand of the clock, think- 
ing that when it reached the figure six I 
should be a murderer ! 

It wanted but seven minutes to the hour 
when Alexis rose lazily from the sofa, stretched 
himself, and went out of the room, saying : — 

44 I will return in a moment." 

Not wishing to meet the eyes of Tatiana, 
I went to the window, parted the curtains, 
and stood there as though looking out. 
Without seeing her, I felt Tatiana swiftly 

cross tfff | v r PRBlt^"^F TOTTITH F Ios C5 t0 m y side - 



I could hear her breathing, and knew that 
she was looking at me and not at the window. 
I kept silence. 

" How brightly the snow sparkles ! " 
remarked Tatiana. But I made no reply. 

" Antony ! " she said, then stopped short. 

And still I was silent. 

" Antony ! " she repeated, in trembling 
tones. I looked at her. She tottered and 
almost fell, as though struck by the terrific 
force that flashed upon her from my eyes. 
Then she sprang to the side of her husband, 
who at that instant re-entered the room. 

" Alexis ! " she murmured. " Alexis ! 
He " 

" What is it ? " 

Without a smile, but weakening my 
pleasantry by the inflection of my voice, I 
said : — 

" She believes that I wish to kill you with 
this thing." 

And I, very calm, boldly and openly took 
up the paper-weight and quietly approached 
Alexis. He gazed at me fixedly with his pale 
eyes as he repeated : — 

" She believes- " 

" Yes, she believes ! " 

Slowly, with a sweeping gesture, I raised 
my arm, and Alexis as slowly began to raise 
his, while his eyes never left my face. 

" Stop ! " I cried, sternly. 

His arm dropped. His eyes remained fixed 
on me, and a wan, doubtful smile played upon 
his lips only. Tatiana cried out something 
in a terrible voice, but it was too late ! With 
the sharp edge of the paper-weight I struck 
Alexis on the temple, nearer the eyebrow than 
the eye. The magistrate told me that I had 
struck many blows, for the head was shattered. 
That is not true. I struck Alexis three times 
in all ; once when he was standing, twice as 
he lay on the floor. 

It is true that the blows were very violent 
ones, but there were only three of them. I 
recollect that perfectly. He had three blows. 


Pray do not give yourselves the trouble of 
deciphering the note at the foot of my fourth 
sheet, and do not attach any excessive 
importance to my blots and erasures. Do not 
regard them as indications of a deranged 
mind. In the strange position wherein I 
stand, it behoves me to be extremely minute 
and circumstantial. * I wish to be candid and 
open ; you will understand that very well. 

The darkness of night always powerfully 
affects a fatigued nervous system ; that is 
why terrifying thoughts so often come to us 

at that time. During the dark hours which 
followed my crime my nerves were naturally 
a prey to an extraordinary excitement. 
Great indeed is the need of absolute self- 
control for one in my circumstances; to 
kill a man is no joke ! 

At tea-time, after I had put my person in' 
order, cleaned my nails, and changed my 
clothes, I called my housekeeper, Maria 
Vassilievna, to keep me company. And it was 
this silly woman who dealt me the first blow. 

" Come and kiss me," I said to her. 

She smiled foolishly and remained in her 

" Well ! " 

She trembled ; her face reddened ; into her 
eyes there came an expression of terror. She 
leaned towards me across the table in a sup- 
plicating attitude. 

" Antony Ignatievitch, my friend/' she 
said, " do go to the doctor ! " 

" What, that again ? " I exclaimed, 

" Oh, don't cry out in that way ! You 
frighten me ! Oh, I am afraid of you, my 
friend ! " 

And yet she knew nothing of my mad fits, 
or of the murder, and to her I had always 
shown myself even-tempered and kind. 

" There is, then, something in me that is 
not in other men — something that makes 
people afraid ! " Such was the thought that 
came to me, and, though I dismissed it at 
once, it left me with a strange sensation of 
cold in my legs and back. I told myself that 
. no doubt Maria had heard of my indisposition 
in the town or from the servants. Or she 
might have noticed the torn clothes which I 
had taken off, and this would be a natural 
explanation of her fear. 

" Go away ! " I ordered. 

When she had gone I stretched myself on 
the divan in my library. I felt disinclined 
to read. My whole body was exhausted — 
fatigued. I felt, in short, like an actor after 
a brilliant performance of his role. 

My eyelids grew heavy, I wanted to sleep, 
when a new thought penetrated my brain. 
Like the others, it glided in quietly and idly, 
and it had all the qualities that distinguish 
my thought — namely, clearness, precision, 
and simplicity. It came without haste, and 
it remained. I give it to you literally, in the 
third person, as — I know not wherefore — it 
formed itself in me. 

" // is very possible that Dr. Kerjentzef is 
actually mad. He thought that he feigned 
insanity, but he is in reality mad. At this 
very moment he is triad." 




rhis thought repeated itself three or four spoken by Maria, for it seemed to me tha 


times in my brain. I continued ^ to smile, 

1 did not understand. 

1 He thought thai ht was feigning insanity, 

hut he is really wad. Now, even, he is madr 

it three words kid been 

Vol ilii -7 

they had found a voice, and that this voa 
resembled hers. Then 1 thought it was that 
of Alexis. Yes ? the voice of the dead man, 
.is. Finalb [ realized that it was 1 
myself who had thought this thing, and the 




idea was horrible. I grabbed at my hair, I 
sprang up, and, standing — why, I cannot 
tell — in the middle of the room, I said : — 

" It is so ! All is over ! That which I 
feared has come to pass. I have ventured 
too near the boundary, and now the future 
holds for me but one thing — madness ! " 

When they came to arrest me, I was, it 
appears, in a frightful state. My white, wild 
face was terrifying to see ; my clothes were 
torn to shreds. But, by Heaven, to pass 
through such a time as I passed through that 
evening without going mad — does not that 
prove that I possess an absolutely indestruc- 
tible brain ? However, I did nothing worse 
than tearing my clothes and smashing the 
glasses. And aprppos of glasses, permit me to 
give you a word of advice. If at any time 
one of you should have to endure what I 
endured that night, be sure you veil the 
mirrors of the room in which you are. Cover 
them as you cover them when there is a 
death in the house. Cover them well ! 

After that I remember nothing until the 
arrival of the police. I inquired what the 
time was. " Nine o'clock," they replied. I 
could scarcely believe that only three hours 
had passed since the death of Alexis. 

But one thing I recollect distinctly : my 
Thought, or the Voice. That, at least, was 

" Dr. Kerjentzef thought that he simulated 
madness , and he was in reality mad." 

I have just felt my pulse — one hundred and 
eighty. The mere recollection of that voice 
has sufficed to agitate me thus. 


Well, gentlemen of science, it is to you that 
I must look for an answer. Am I mad or 
am I not mad ? Naturally you will be 
divided in your opinion. Half of you 
will say one thing, half the other ; but, 
gentlemen, I promise to believe all of you ! 
Only give me your opinion ! And here I 
will relate to you yet another trifling but very 
interesting incident, something which may 
prove of assistance to your enlightened minds. 
One calm, peaceful evening, here, within 
these white walls, I observed that the nurse, 
Macha, was looking frightened and upset, 
as though cowed by some awful force. She 
left me, and I remained seated upon the 
bed, thinking of all the things that I would 
like to do. And it seemed to me that I 
wanted to do some very queer things. I, 
Dr. Kerjentzef, wanted to howl I Not merely 
to cry out, but to howl — as the others do. I 

wanted to tear my clothes and to scratch 
myself. I wanted to take my shirt by the 
collar, to finger it at first gently, then suddenly 
to rend it from top to bottom. And I wanted 
— I, Dr. Kerjentzef — to go down on hands 
and knees and crawl ! Around me all was 
quiet. The snow-flakes glistened on the 
window-panes, and not far off Macha was 
praying silently. I spent a long time in 
making up my mind what to do. If I howled 
that would make a noise and cause a scandal. 
If I tore my shirt I should be found out the 
next day. Then, quite rationally, I chose to 
gratify my third wish — the wish to crawl. 
Nobody would hear me, and if anyone came 
in and saw me, I would say that I was looking 
for a lost button. 

But then I thought : — 

" Why do I wish to crawl ? Am I really 

I was seized with terror and with a sudden 
desire to do three things at the same time — 
to howl, to crawl, to scratch myself. I 
became angry. 

" You wish to crawl ? " I asked myself. 

There was no reply. The wish had died 

" You wish to crawl ? " I persisted. 

Again there was no reply. 

" Then crawl ! " I said. 

After turning up my sleeves I went down 
on all-fours and crawled. And when I had 
in this way traversed about half the length 
of the room, I was so immensely tickled by 
my own folly that I sat down on the floor just 
where I happened to be and began to laugh, 
laugh, laugh. 

As I still retained my habitual belief that 
we can by research attain to a measure of 
knowledge, I set myself to discover the 
source of my senseless desires. Clearly they 
(the wish to crawl and the rest of them) were 
the product of auto-suggestion. The fixed 
idea of my pretended insanity had called forth 
these insane longings, and as soon as they had 
been gratified I found that I no longer had 
them, and that I was not mad. My reasoning, 
you perceive, is very simple and logical, 

But all the same I have crawled; I have 
crawled. What am I ? A madman who 
excuses himself, or a sane man of intellect who 
is in process of becoming mad ? 

Come to my succour, gentlemen, you men 
of science. Let the weight of your authority 
incline the scale one way or the other. Solve 
for me this terrible, this cruel problem. 
Ah, how anxiously.- I .await your verdict ! 

Am llffffelTY OF MICHIGAN 



Freddie Welth, Lirfil-wei«ht Champion of the World. 




^A^itk Blows Specially 

Photographed hy the 
Alfieri Picture Series* 

There is, perhaps, nothing in the world which gives rise to such a variety of 
opinions as a glove -fight. Some people can see nothing in it but a spectacle of 
two men knocking one another about like savages for money, Others see in 
ir a contest demanding in the highest degree the qualities of pluck, endurance, 
skill, and self-control. But how do the boxers themselves regard it? That is a 
question of interest to everybody, and the following article, written by a man so 
eminently qualified to answer it, will appeal to readers of every shade of opinion. 

HE brutality of boxing i I 
suppose there can be no 
revival of any sport unless 
there are critics ready to pull 
it to pieces — critics, too, who 
in the majority of instances 
display a colossal ignorance 
of their subjects. To many of these j modern 
boxing means but the survival of the old 
prize-ring, when men stood up and battered 
one another beyond recognition , and when 
the crowd round the ropes were equal to 
anything in the crooked way. 

But I wish these critics who decry boxing 
would attend one of the big contests of 
to-day. If they could be induced to do this, 
I feel certain they would recognize the fact 

that they were in the wrong, They would 
see, not brutality, but two perfectly -trained 
athletes, men who must of necessity live 
clean lives, just battling for the mastery. 
In contest after contest not a drop of blood 
is spilt ; it is a scientific struggle, with not 
a trace of anger introduced from the start to 
the finish. 

Remember j in the first place, that to-day 
we find the boxer wearing gloves of a recog- 
nized weight and pattern, and just soft 
^bandages underneath. Soft bandages, mind 
you, and the referee takes special care to 
see that there is nothing in them that can 
inflict any injury upon an opponent. If he 
is doubtful, he orders them to be removed and 
others substituted- And if a boxer thinks he 




can wind yard after yard of bandages round 
his hands he quickly discovers his mistake. 
He is ordered to remove as much as will 
reduce them to ordinary dimensions ; they 
are just to protect the wearer's hands, and 
that is all. 

Just as, in fencing, we use foils with 
buttons on the points, and the more skilful 
fencer is the man who wins on the hits he 
may register — he cannot injure an opponent ; 
the button prevents that — so by putting 
gloves on our hands the possibility of inflicting 
any lasting hurt upon a man you are boxing 
with is reduced to a negligible quantity. 
Brutality is absolutely impossible. 

One of the duties of the referee is to see 
that neither man is badly punished. He has 
the power vested in him to stop the contest 
at any time he thinks fit. Both men have 
to pass a searching medical examination 
before they go into the ring ; they have to 
be in the very best physical condition, and, 
should either be outclassed, then the contest 
is stopped and the victory awarded to the 
other man. 

This fact cannot be denied ; we read of its 
happening again and again during the boxing 
season. Yet the boxer who loses is never 
satisfied that he is beaten. He always feels 
that he wishes to go on, that he thinks he can 
beat his opponent, and that he isn't being hurt. 
Can any sane man say after this that boxing 
is by any means brutality personified ? 

With the bare knuckles, now happily 
placed under the ban of the ruling authorities, 
brutality was possible. Indeed, I would go 
still further, and say that the old prize-fights 
were brutal beyond question. 

But the boxer of to-day is not the beetle- 
browed and scarred veteran of the past. 
He must, if he hopes to approach champion- 
ship class, be a man possessed of brains, a 
man with a capacity for thinking all the while 
a contest is in progress. He must be cool 
and level-headed. Once he loses the command 
of his temper all is lost. He becomes wild 
and erratic, he loses touch with the finer 
points of the sport altogether, he becomes 
just a target for the gloves of his opponent. 
They tap him from all quarters with irritating 
frequency, the points are scored up against 
him at a lightning rate, and, although he may 
be strong and well at the end of the final 
round, he is the loser. 

Take any of the modern champions, and 
what do we find ? Just that they have come 
out of their contests practically unmarked. 
Speaking for myself, during my career in the 
ring I have taken part in one hundred and 

thirteen contests. My photograph speaks 
for itself. Do I look a battered veteran ? 
I know I would not win any prize beauty 
championship, but I am just driving home 
the point that a man need not carry the marks 
of the fray about with him. In nearly ten 
years of boxing with one hundred and thirteen 
opponents and a thousand sparring partners 
I have never yet had a black eye. 

Take other champions and ex-champions, 
such as Willie Ritchie, Packy McFarland, 
Jimmy Britt, J. J. Corbett, Bob Fitzsimmons, 
Bombardier Wells, and Georges Carpentier. 
Indeed, I could lengthen my list almost 
indefinitely. They are practically unmarked ; 
if the ordinary man was not told that they 
were boxers, he certainly would not guess 
their profession from their personal appear- 
ance. The manual worker can be identified 
by the contour of his hands, the boxer might 
be anything — a man about town, or just an 
ordinary athlete. 

Now it may be argued that I have simply 
said there is no brutality about modern 
boxing, but that I haven't proved my case. 
I fancy I hear someone saying, " Of course, 
Freddie Welsh won't admit boxing is brutaL 
He's a boxer himself." So let me tell you 
all about the sensations of boxing, of how a 
man feels in the ring, and what actually 
happens when he is knocked out. 

I have been boxing now for nearly ten 
years, and I have never been knocked out 
in my life. But I've been near enough to it 
to know exactly what it feels like. Only one 
knock-out blow is really painful, and that is 
when you are struck on the body just below 
the chest. That's painful for the moment, 
but it's no worse than being knocked out, 
temporarily winded, while playing football. 

Before going into the details of the knock- 
out blow, however, I should like to say some- 
thing about the photographs which illustrate 
this article. They were specially taken, and 
each illustrates a blow I used when I beat 
Willie Ritchie for the world's title. They are 
potential knock-outs, but I would also like 
to point out that both Ritchie and myself 
were quite fresh when we had finished boxing 
our twenty rounds. We were unmarked, and 
I had won — easily, so the papers said — on 
points. Skill and science, mind you, not 

This little explanation made, let me get 
on with what it feels like to box, especially 
as compared with other violent forms of 
exercise, such as rowing, cycling, and running. 
There is no need for me to take any other 

than fcEftm»?CHfe{ffl ve takcn *** 



in all of them, and I know how I've felt. 
I also know how other fellows, friends of 
mine, have felt, while even walking is much 
more punishing in its effects than boxing. 

A world's champion in long-distance walk- 
ing, Mr. T. E. Hammond, once described 
his sensations. He said he wouldn't have 
minded if a motor-car had come along and 
run over him. All he knew was that he had 
to keep on walking, and that if he had been 
killed he would have known that his agony 
and struggle against physical exhaustion 
would have been over. Now, I've never felt 
like that when I've been boxing, so walking, 
if you want to argue, must be more brutal 
than using the gloves. 

At Henley a sculler has fainted and fallen 
out of his boat before now. In the University 
Boatrace between Putney and Mortlake on 
the Thames, members of both crews have been 
in a collapsed state at the finish of a hard- 
rowed race. They have been photographed 
lying about in all positions, dead to the world 
for the time being. 

Within a few minutes of a boxing contest 
being finished the men have been rubbed 
down, they are dressed, and they are as fit 
as possible. It's very different with other 
branches of athletics, though, and a glance 
at the photographs of men who have run 
a hard race, a hundred yards, a quarter of 
a mile, a mile, and so on, will prove how 
they have been punished. Their faces are 
drawn and distorted with agony. Nothing 
of this is to be seen on the face of a boxer 
in the most strenuous contest. It is perfectly 
easy to verify my statements in this respect. 
Go to any cinema reproduction of a boxing 
contest, or look at any illustrated paper pub- 
lishing photographs of a contest, and what 
do you see ? The men are frequently smiling 
broadly, and even if they are serious it is 
over what is after all a serious business. There 
is no look of phvsical agony about them, at 
all events. 

Now let me take what happens after the 
finish of a hard run. More frequently than 
not a man gets to the tape and he falls flat 
on the turf by the side of the cinders. He is 
" out " to the last ounce, and I have known 
them to be in the dressing-room in a collapsed 
condition for a very long while after they 
have been carried or assisted off the track. 
At the end of a twenty-round boxing contest, 
however, the men walk to their corners un- 
assisted and sit down on their chairs for a 
couple of minutes, the winner trots across the 
ring and shakes hands with his opponent, 
they duck through the ropes, and stroll away 

to the dressing-room none the worse for their 

And just take this from me. Don't imagine 
that because a boxer goes down on the floor 
of the ring and provides an imitation of a 
contortion act that he is always badly hurt 
and suffering pain. There are boxers who 
may not relish their task, you know, and if 
they think they can persuade the referee that 
they have been fouled they take that chance. 
Occasionally, of course, a boxer is fouled, but 
you don't find that with the boxers in cham- 
pionship class, as a rule. In the whole of my 
career, for instance, I have won only a couple 
of times on fouls, and I am proud to be able 
to say that I have never lost a fight on a foul. 
Accidents may happen, certainly, but a cham- 
pion boxer should not give them any chance 
of happening. 

The six days' cycle races may be dismissed 
in a very few words. The men suffer more 
agony in one of these contests than a boxer 
does in all his career, yet they are not stig- 
matized as being brutal. No, I am afraid 
there are those who allow their feelings to 
run away with their judgment. If this is not 
so, then I cannot understand the attitude 
which has been taken up by just a section 
of the public. 

Let me start here with the sensations of 
a boxer when he gets into the ring. Pictures 
play a very big part in all the championship 
contests now, at home and abroad, and to 
secure these pictures for the cinema and the 
newspapers a strong, steady light is an 
absolute necessity. When I boxed Ritchie, 
for instance, we were under lights that were 
equal to one hundred and sixty thousand 
candle-power. The effect of this was to 
throw the ring out as a big patch of gleaming 
white, while the rest of Olympia was shrouded 
in velvety blackness. 

You are sitting in your corner waiting for 
the word to begin. There is a confused mur- 
mur from the packed house, with perhaps 
a sudden cry stabbing out of the partial 
stillness. As I was sitting waiting for Ritchie 
this was all I could hear, until at last came the 
voices of my supporters, who had come up 
from Wales in their hundreds. It was like 
a crowd at a football match, and I am not 
ashamed to admit the tears sprang to my eyes 
as " The Land of My Fathers" boomed out. 
We Welshmen are emotional people — it's in 
our Celtic temperament — and you would be 
really surprised to know the effect this great 
vocal demonstration had upon me. I rose 
and bowed my thanks, but had I been asked 
to have returned a word of thanks just then 




my heart would have been too full. Boxers 
are only human after alL 1 wish some of our 
detractors would only think of this some- 

This was before the contest commenced, but 
when he is boxing seriously a man has no ears 
or attention for anything outside the ring. 
He has to concentrate all his attention upon 
the business in hand ; he has to think of 
what his opponent is about to do, and the 
best method by which to checkmate him, It's 
like a player in a football match. The crowd 
on the touch-line and in the stands may be 
yelling itself hoarse, but the players hear very 
little of what is going on. They are attending 
to the game. So are the boxers. 

Now we come to the knock-out, that so- 
called terrible blow which has been called all 
kinds of names. But I wonder if many of 
those who talk so glibly about the knock-out 
blow know what it actually means ? 

A knock-out means that a man 
receives a blow and sinks to the 
floor. If unable to regain his feet 
in ten seconds he has lost the 
contest* Ten seconds, mind 
you* If a man were allowed A 
thirty seconds in which to 
recover, there might be 
some excuse for those who 
call boxing a brutal sport, 
but ten seconds goes by 
like a flash. Try counting 
ten seconds off on your 
watch, and you'll know 
what I mean. You are 
no sooner down than 
you have to think 
about getting up 
again. You may 
be up in eleven 
seconds, but 
that's too 
late. It's 
all over, 

painful blow a boxer can receive is one 
on the body, just on that soft spot below 
the breast-bone. I am taking this first, for 
the ordinary knock-out on the chin doesn't 
hurt you one little tiny bit. A " blow 
in the wind/ 3 as they say in football, hurts 

Slrppins jq and del i verms ■ right lo th 

punch, which B-ob FitziimmoD* made faznout, 

a bit, but not nearly so much if you get it from 
a gloved hand as if you get it from the head 
or foot of a player, You read of footballers 
being " temporarily winded," but they go off 
in the touch-line for a couple of minutes and 
then come back and resume play again. 

Trying to collar a man running with the ball 
in Rugby football frequently ends in your being 
knocked out. I know, for I was a football 
player while at school. But there's no shriek 
about football being a brutal game, is there ? 
Yet men don't wear gloves on their feet or 
their heads, and I'd rather get a blow from 
a gloved hand than the other variety any day 
in the week. You get a kick in the chest when 
playing Association football, and out you go 
for minutes. And in boxing, if you don't get 
up in ten seconds you are finished. Now., I ask 
any fair-minded man or woman, which is the 
more brutal ? Not boxing, certainly. 

Then there is the blow under 
the heart, about which a lot 
has been written and said by 
those who really do not know 
much about the game. A 
blow under the heart 
\ does not affect a man, 
as a rule j for the ribs 
and lower chest-muscle 
protect that particular 
spot. If a man does 
go down, and stops 
down for ten 
seconds, from a 
blow on that portion 
of his anatomy, it 
will be found, in 
ninety - nine cases 
out of a hundred, 
that it is really a 
11 blow in the 
wind " that has 
worked the 

And now 
we will get 
on to the 
blows on 
the chin 
and jaw, 
real 1 y 

count as knock - outs, but which leave no 
ill-effects in their wake. In this case there 
is no incentive to brutality on the part of 
a boxer. A very light tap indeed, put on 
the proper spot, is all that is necessary* 
A sledge-hammer blow is not called for : the 

iiqroack. Thii ii Itnown Ah ihe "Solar plciu* 



assertion of scientific force is all that is 
There is absolutely no pain attaching to 

a knock-out blow delivered on the jaw or the 

end of the chin. The 

explanation uf this is a 

very simple one* It is 

that the jaw or the 

chin, with all the 

leverage of the 

length of the jaw- i 

bone j just sends a ; 

slight shock to the 

brain. This shock 

is sufficient to daze 

a man for a few 

seconds, to make 

him lose himself, 

and when he 

recovers the full 

use of his faculties 

he discovers that 

he has to take the 

loser's end of the 

purse. He may 

Ixj as fit as ever 

at the end of 

fifteen seconds , 

but he has been 

just five seconds 

too long in pull- 
ing himself to- 
gether. That's 

The weight 

put behind a 

blow to the 

chin has very 

little to do with the knock - out as 

rule. You can coax a man to get his chin 

into the position you want it in if you are 

skilful. He turns it until he can turn it no 
farther, and then the slightest tap will do all 
that is required. A little bit of extra leverage 
is introduced , and it does the business- That's 
*hy I am always careful to carry my chin 
well on my chest when I am boxing. The 
best of us can be knocked out, don't forget 
that ; but if we keep the chin well down, your 
opponent's glove cannot get you on a vital 

Getting your chin down as I have just 
described also has another effect. The neck 
is arched, the muscles are brought up, and 
you are in a far better position to withstand 
the jar of a hit on the cheek or high up on the 
jaw should your opponent get home. So to 
all my boxing readers I say, M Keep your chin 
well down and protected/ 1 

Digitized by Google 

As I have already said, I have never been 
knocked out in my life^ but I have very nearly 
had that experience, so I know exactly what 
the sensations are like. First of all comes the 
thud of the blow on the jaw. 
You hear it more than you 
kvl it. unci a curious sensa- 
tion runs back and up 
your jaw, paralyzing 
your brain for a time. 
You get a buzzing 
in your head, and 
you dimly hear 
thousands of 
voices shouting 
from apparently 
miles away. 
You go down, you 
know you are 
down, and you 
also fully recognize 
the fact that you 
have to get up 
again inside of ten 
seconds. S o m e- 
times everything 
goes dark, you 
cannot see your 
opponent , the 
ring, or the 
But you 
have that 
that tells 
you the 
latter is 
counting the seconds off, and you know if you 
hesitate you are lost. 

You feel that you would like to lie where 
you fell, or sit still on the floor of the ring ? 
until your senses clear, but you know you 
have no time to lose. The seconds are gallop- 
ing away with the speed of lightning, and you 
must get up. So you pull yourself up on one 
knee, with both gloves resting on the floor 
and supporting you, 

I never wait myself until the nine seconds 
are called- I have always got up at seven 
when I have been knocked down, for you 
can actually " fall up" from one knee by 
pushing up from the floor with your gloves, 
and if you do go down again you are 
entitled to another count. Meanwhile your 
brain is clearing, and when you do get up 
you have recovered from the little mishap 
that has befallen you. That, at least, lias 

been my experience. 

3 •Original from 


Weliti tideiteppins » 'eft lead and cQunternnir wtth a powerful rig hit upcxr cut, 
Thu blow ii more effective qwijib 1o the added impetus of id opponent itepping 

in to lead 


M I 



No matter haw dazed you may feel, don't 
sit down on the floor of the ring and stop there. 
Get on one knee as I have described. If you 
try to get up at the end of a count from a 
sitting position the chances are that you will 
fall back, and so be counted out, although you 
may be really recovering. Take as much of 
the counts as you can with safety, but don't 
cut things too fine, 

Vou may be dazed, but you are able to think. 
This is proved by the fact that boxers 
frequently shake their heads in order to 
clear their brains, I have even seen some of 
them slap their faces with their gloves in 
order to wake themselves up. They have 
been down, but they have still been capable 
of using their brains. 

That a boxer, although down, is thinking 
hard all the while can also be supported in 
other ways. Sometimes a blow on the jaw 
exercises a curious numbing sensation in the 
legs. The brain may be clear , but the legs 
may refuse to do their duty. I have seen 
boxers get hold of their ankles and pull their 
feet and legs under them in order to be able 
to rise in the stipulated time j on other occa- 
sions they have had 
sense enough to 
roll over and over 
until they have 
reached the 
edge of the 
ring, and 
then they 
have pulled 
up into an 
erect position 
by the aid of 
the ropes. 

Once on 
their feet 
again they 
have been all 
right, but the 
numbness is 
a curious 
Brain clear 3 
but legs 
useless ; 

that's WeUiiif. 

how it 

works out. Then when you are up, and if 
you feel it necessary to take things as easily 
as po^ible, cover up, hang on 3 or keep away 
from your opponent, whichever vou think 

Digitized by V^QQQIC 

best, \ r ou may need a few seconds in which 
to recover yourself, and that is the manner 
in which to secure them. 

Let me tell you about the one occasion 
when I was almost knocked out myself, and 
how I felt at the time. It was when I met 
Packy McFarland at Los Angeles. First of 
all, though, I would like to mention that 
the aim of every star boxer is to escape the 
knock-out He may go down, but he battles 
on grimly* He knows he will recover if he 
gets the opportunity to l< stall " for time, and, 
although he may lose on points, he has the 
proud satisfaction of knowing that his 
opponent has not succeeded in putting him 
away. He is on his feet at the finish, and he 
can still say that he has never been knocked 

To get back to this meeting of mine with 
Packy, however- He dropped me in the last 
round, and so earned a draw, although I must 
confess I thought I was well ahead on points, 
Still, the referee is the man who carries the 
verdict with him, 

Packy, as I was saying, put me down, and 
I admit I knew all about it. Everything 
went black for a few seconds, 
but I never lost my head. 
- 00^ I staggered up inside 

\ the ten seconds, and 

as I was getting 
to my feet I was 
thinking what I 
would do in 
order to get 
time enough 
to pull my- 
self together 

The ma- 

jority of 


make a 





itrwgkt left lemd with w 
crown from 

hich he pt&clicakJy "jabbed' 
WLUw Ritchie* h«d. 

(he Light- wcidfit 

succeed in putting their man down. The J 
rush at him like a bull when he gets upj 
they swing and pummel without any idea 
of doinj. anvthlnjr but hitting, and trie 




result is that the other fellow, if U knnws 
anything, covers up and weathers the storm. 
The erstwhile winner, getting tired , beats 
himselt by his own exertions, and he dis- 
covers, when it is too late, 
the mistake he has made. 
The clever boxer, on the 
other hand j knows ex- ^ 

artly what to do when 
his opponent gets 
on his feet again. 
He just feints 
and gets his 
man into a 
tangle, then 
pops one across 
on the right 
spot, and it's 
done with and 

So as soon 
as I was 
up again I 

A downward rfiikt drive to I he chin, delivered while in Qpn^n-nl it in ■ low crouch. 
TW i» the ct\cl poflilio^ that C*'D*n!n*r and "Gunboat*' Smith w? re in wh*n the 
former pul ha opponent down with his powerful riant* in the fourth round of the 

coot? it at Olytnp'a. 

what I should do if I had been in Packy's 
shoes. He is a clever hoy. and I could just 
about calculate what he would do. I couldn't 
Sfe him T hut I knew he would feint with his 
left, and then, if I stepped in to clinch, bring 
his right across. So I waited until I " sensed " 
that he had feinted, hut instead of going in 
I went back. The result was that his right 
whizzed past my chin, and then I did go in 
and hold. 

My ! I put a real Rugby tackle on him, 
and you ought to have heard the ten thousand 
people present yell when they saw I had got 
om of my difficulty. It's the first time I really 

heard a crowd shout for a man who was 
holding, but they had seen what I was trying 
to do, and how J had succeeded, A referee, 
too j if he sees a good game fellow holding 
a bit in order to save himself when badly 
rattled t isn't too severe. So I kept close in, 
and every second that passed my head was 
getting clearer and clearer. 

I ,also thought how- I 
could make Packy a bit 
wild, so as soon as 
got close I 
whispered/* If 
that's all the 
ability you 
possess you 
knock a 
man's hat off , 
young man. 3 ' 
Packy couldn't 
see the joke 
a n d lie 
got wild in 
his boxing 
for a bit, 
He threw 
me away 
and off 
him t tothe 
floor, to 
be exact, so I had the chance of taking another 
count, I did so ; it was all the time 1 wanted, 
and 1 finished up strongly. 

But if I had been so badly knocked about 
as some people would like to make out, I 
should not have possessed the capacity of 
being able to think; So I am giving you my 
word that a punch on the jaw does not always 
knock all the senses out of you, and that, if 
a man is in good physical condition } the effects 
last only a very few minutes. 

This is my last word : Boxing is no more 
brutal than any other sport, and it if less 
brutal than many-. 

by Google 

Original from 



Illustrated by Stanley Davis. 

ARY SHELTON told no one 
of the discovery she had made 
when going through the old 
house with the agent. Your 
grown-up dreamer is as secre- 
tive as any child, and a 
secluded girlhood, followed by 
an opportunity to teach in her own college, 
had left the star-dust and prism-lights of 
Mary's dreams still thick about her. 

Besides, this cloistered life had shut out 
those experiences which her lovely face 
and her quick warmth of nature would 
otherwise have made inevitable. She looked 
as young as the girls to whom she lectured 
on psychology, yet they never thought of 
introducing their men friends to her ; and 
they could have given her points on feminine 
psychology which would have set her star- 
dust vapours spinning. 

She told her friends she had taken the 
house because she had fallen in love with 
it, and because she needed just such a quiet 
retreat for summer vacations ; but beneath 
the reasons she gave was the reason she 
alone knew. It stirred her with exquisite 
excitement. She felt that she had come to 
the perfect, secret flowering of her life. The 
course of an adventure cannot be charted 
beforehand, but Mary felt sure that the one 
she had embarked upon would carry her far 
from all the common highways of life. 

The day she went to take possession of 
the old house was a June day of wind and 
sunshine. She walked from the station by 
the beach path because the bus was crowded, 
and because she wanted to come to the 
house by way of the sea. She knew just 
where she would get her first glimpse of 
the chimney-tops. She took the cliff path 
jauntily, her eyes bright and her hair whipped 
by the wind. She looked and walked like a 
girl of twenty. 

From the top of the cliff she was to see 

her chimneys, and there also she saw John 
Brooks's fine new cottage. It sprawled over 
the rocks and burst into peaks and gables. 
It was hideous ; and John Brooks was the 
owner of the old house she had taken ! 
Suddenly she smiled. Her landlord's taste 
for this had left her that. She had found 
her chimneys, solid and red, amid feathery 

On one side of her were the flimsy struc- 
tures that sheltered the summer colony ; 
on the other, the primitive cottages and 
beach shanties ; and down the road „ that 
led from the sea was the old Brooks place, 
its dignity and charm enhanced by comparison. 
It had an air of withdrawing itself, an air of 

It was waiting, Mary felt, for her. As 
she approached it she saw neither the pleasant 
marsh to left and right nor the hills farther 
away. She was living over again her visit 
to the house with the agent. 

From the moment they entered she had 
felt — something. At first it was only the 
teasing glimmer of an impression, darkening 
before she could make it out. But by 
degrees, as they went through the rooms, it 
grew clearer and brighter. She forgot to 
listen to the agent, forgot about the facts 
she had come to note. She saw only the 
things that brightening impression illumined 
for her : the old violin on the piano, the 
grouped photographs in the library, the little 
study with the old desk. 

Then she made her discovery, and every- 
thing the house had been trying to tell her 
became clear. The attic had been turned 
into a studio, the agent told her, for Rodman 
Brooks, John's brother. He'd been a kind 
of artist. John tried to get him into the 
shoe business, but it was no use. Then at 
last John sent him to Paris, and there he 
died. TQfjgpictuies he'd left were in the 

University of Michigan 



Tin gin a I fj 





The attic door was locked, but Mary said 
she could not take the house without seeing 
the studio ; so the agent left her aiyi went 
for the key. She waited for him in the little 
study, looked over the books, and sat down 
at the desk. She began to feel well ac- 
quainted with Rodman Brooks. It was as 
if she had come upon a tenant in the tenant- 
less house. Then, opening the desk, she 
found the note-book. 

Its pages were covered with a strong, 
youthful handwriting. She read here and 
there, and before she thought to question 
her right she had been carried far beyond 
such questioning. Her fellow-tenant had 
found a voice. He was speaking to her, and 
she was listening, or, rather, her thought 
sprang to meet his. Never in all her life had 
she felt a sense of such perfect, satisfying 
comradeship. An exquisite happiness rose 
within her. 

The agent came back with the key, and 
she put the book away. She followed him 
up to the studio ; but when he opened the 
door she stood still on the threshold. She 
was looking into the face of her new friend ; 
his eyes and hers had met. 

" He painted it himself, looking in the 
glass. He never did a stroke of work, Rod 
didn't, only his painting, and none too much 
of that." 

Thus spoke the agent. And John Brooks 
— John Brooks, who was building the fine 
new cottage on the cliff — had tried to force 
his brother into a shoe factory ! Mary looked 
a moment longer into the eager young face, 
the restless eyes ; then she turned away, her 
hand at her throat. 

That sudden ache in her throat brought 
her back to the present moment. She was 
almost at her own gate, and there was 
Hannah peering anxiously up and down. 
Hannah had served in the Brooks family 
for years, and was now to take care of her. 
She exclaimed in relief at sight of Miss 
Shelton : — 

" When the bus went by I almost thought 
you hadn't come." 

" I am so glad to be here, and so glad you 
are here to take care of me ! " 

It was Mary's way to flash out like that, 
now a warm, near delight, now a distant star. 
Hannah was captured, of course, but she held 
fast to old loyalties. 

" I wouldn't be here if Mr. John's new 
house was finished ; I'd have gone." 

But already Mary was a distant star. 
Hannah felt it, and broke off. Nevertheless, 
she made Miss Shelton understand that there 

was time to wash up before supper. This 
meant to Mary time to rediscover her com- 
rade, to make sure he was still there. She 
just glanced at the violin and the grouped 
photographs, then ran up to the old desk. 

He was there ; again they spoke together. 
But Mary had only a few moments ; she must 
make herself ready to go down to Hannah's 
supper. If she had been lovely in wind and 
sunset light, she was lovelier in the glow of 
the famplight. Hannah lingered over her 

" Did you see Mr. John's new house ? " 
she asked. 

Mary nodded. Even such as she must 
dispose of hot omelette. Then she said : — 

" But I'd rather have his old house than 
his new one." 

" That new house of John Brooks's/' 
Hannah reproved her, " is the finest any- 
where about here." 

" Yes, but this one is so "homelike." 

" It ain't homelike to Mr. John since his 
brother died." 

" He cared so much ? " 

It was not in Hannah to resist that voice. 

" He was just set on him. He'd have 
made him a partner in the business, but 
Rod kept on talking about how he must 
go to Paris. So at last Mr. John sent him 
there, and there he died. He got his way, 
but it didn't do him much good." 

" Perhaps " — Mary's voice was still soft — 
" perhaps if he'd gone sooner, before he was 
tired out with fretting about it, he would 
have lived and been famous." 

" Well, he never did much but fretting to 
tire him. Mr. John never wasted his time 
fretting. He worked. And now he's got 
those factories across the river, full of men 
earning good wages ; and Rodman — he left 
a few pictures up in the attic." 

Mary rose from the table. The fog that 
shut in Hannah's outlook, John Brooks's, 
the world's, seemed to be closing about her. 
She wanted to get away. But at the door 
she turned, smiling. A clear shaft of light 
had pierced the murk. What did it matter, 
the verdict of such as these ? Better to 
know, to live, whatever was left to show for 
it. In that shaft of light, piercing the outer 
darkness, she felt that she clasped hands 
with her comrade. 

Before she went to bed that night Mary 
took her candle and crossed the hall to the 
little study. Her heart beat strangely. 
Never had she sought any other friend with 
such questing eagerness. Her comrade had 
awaited her there through the years ; at her 



coming his silence had been broken. When 
she heard his voice she knew that she, too, 
had been waiting. What, then, would he 
have to say to her on this her first night in 
the old house ? She sat down at the desk 
and took the little book from its place. 

If your guide be your inner, your true self, you need 
have no fear of venturing. That quick, intuitive 
prompting will be pretty sure to take you out of the 
beaten track. But what delights, what adventures, 
await you, what glimpses of things^ undreamed of ! 

" What delights, what adventures ! " It 
was strange, this meeting of her own thought. 
Yet it was not strange ; she might have known. 
She read on ; and when she put the book away 
her face was touched with wondering happi- 
ness. She looked precisely fitted to her 
experience ; and, in truth, she felt herself to 
be so fitted. She went to sleep smiling over 
the thought that John Brooks owned the 
house only as he owned the pictures in the 
attic, the note-book in the desk. He owned 
mortar and wood, canvas and paper, that 
was all. 

The next day, looking into the face of 
this prosperous man, all her impressions 
were confirmed. He had called in his role 
of landlord. He meant, thought Mary, to 
play that part conscientiously. Hid he 
not been a conscientious brother, trying to 
force the artist into the shoe business, and 
was he not now a conscientious success, 
with his fine new cottage and his factories 
full of working men ? Every line of that 
solidly-knit, comfortably proportioned figure, 
every tone of that unquickened voice, sug- 
gested to Mary the unswerving pursuit, and 
the realization, of material aims. 

She had been with her comrade that 
morning in the little study, and a phrase 
he quoted haunted her mind while she talked 
with John Brooks : " Where there is no 
vision the people perish ! " Clearly, thought 
Mary, the vision had died out of those eyes 
through long gazing on money and leather. 
To be sure, they were kind ; but it was easy 
to be kind after such fashion. John Brooks 
had been kind when he wished to force his 
brother into the shoe business. 

Mary's landlord, happily unaware of her 
thoughts, appeared to take pleasure in finding 
the old place revived by her presence. " Any- 
thing you want done, just let me know/' 
he said more than once. Mary was glad 
when he went into the kitchen to talk to 

However, she had no intention of letting 
her landlord mar her happiness. Its golden 
circle lay bright about her, its centre was the 

comradeship she had found ; but it included 
Hannah and the old house, the sea, and all 
the country about, cliff and beach and 
marsh. But it did not include the summer 
colony. Mary had chanced upon two or 
three acquaintances, and knew how to avoid 
the petty social net spread for her feet. She 
took long rambles beside the sea and over 
the hills ; she read among the rocks on the 
beach, went sailing with an old sea-captain, 
and took her daily swim in the ocean. 
" She never felt alone. Her comrade seemed 
always with her, whether she met him in the 
little study or treasured his words in her 
thought. She even sought to share his 
experiences, to be guided by him. She rose 
sometimes before daybreak, because he had 
said : " Get out of doors, and see how the 
day begins. In that vast emptiness, slowly 
filling with light, in the stir of the air and the 
colours of dawn, you will see what God means 
for you." 

What Mary actually did see, when she 
went out into the dawn, was a deer. It 
stood motionless, stared at her, then bounded 
off in great leaps. She could hardly believe 
it had really happened. She felt like a 
N&!d.d ; like anything wild and near to pri- 
mitive life. She would have liked to bathe 
in a pool in the woods, only there was none, 
and she would not have dared. 

On that same day John Brooks stayed to 
dinner. Hannah slyly begged the invitation, 
and he, of course, never suspected. Yet 
Mary Shelton's manner might have deceived 
the very elect. After all, she could not pay 
her landlord in rent for letting her have the 
old house, and he was eager to do everything 
possible for her comfort. 

So she flashed neater than usual — near 
enough for a hint of warmth and sweetness. 
She made him laugh by telling him how, the 
morning after her arrival, she had a^ked 
Hannah whether she knew the name of those 
bushes with the. sweet-smelling leaves, the 
ones that grew everywhere. 

"To be sure, I do," said Hannah. 

" Well, what do you call them ? " 

" Sure," was the answer, " I never called 
them anything but just ' them bushes.' " 

Then John Brooks told her that Hannah 
had taken care of him and his brother ever 
since their parents died. " She had no use 
for poor Rod's painting, though. One day 
he left a canvas to dry in the kitchen, and she 
put it in the stove. She said she thought 
he'd thrown it away." 

John laughed softly, but something in 
Mary's heart clicked shut against him. 



Certain words of her comrade came into her 
mind : — 

Each soul has its own road to take ; but if the 
road is lonely or rough the temptation comes to 
leave it for companionship and ease. Better stumble 
every step of the way along the true road, better faint 
again and again from weariness and pain ; for to 
leave it is to be lost. 

Useless to repeat those words to John 
Brooks, sitting there complacent, successful, 
aware only of the obvious. But if she could 
flash their meaning, their truth, into his 
mind ! Mary looked at him a moment, then 
said, quietly, " It must have been hard for 
your brother to work in such circumstances." 

Instantly the reminiscent laughter died 
from her companion's face. It was a strong, 
masculine face ; the dark hair about it was 
already turning grey ; the lines ran deep. 
Now its expression was heavy and unlighted. 

" Perhaps," he answered, his eyes on the 
floor. Then, with a still duller intonation, 
" Perhaps it was." 

The conversation flagged. Mary looked 
impatiently at the unlighted face opposite. 
How plainly it betrayed the man's service 
to the world of things, his lack of dreams 
and aspirations ! That very morning her 
comrade had told her that " Dreams and 
aspirations are the motor forces of action." 
But of course he meant of noble action. No 
dreams and aspirations were needed .for the 
building of factories and a hideous new 

Meantime, Mary's guest presented a stolid 
front to the winged thoughts that hovered 
between them. Yet he lingered. He was 
clearly content with the silences that fell- 
content to sit there in the old parlour, with 
the sea-breezes blowing through the window, 
and Mary sitting where his eyes could rest 
upon her. 

They rested upon her quite unaware ; he 
seemed to have forgotten himself. And Mary 
grew increasingly impatient with his quiet 
satisfaction. Her presence, she felt, simply 
lent the touch which made those familiar 
surroundings once more cheerful and home- 
like. But Hannah, coming in with some 
iced lemonade, and also with a woman's 
eyes in her head, took that look of John 
Brooks as she might have taken a stitch in 
the side — with a sharp breath and a change 
of colour. For she had seen not only the 
look in the man's eyes ; she had seen also 
the utter detachment of Miss Shelton. And, 
though she loved the girl, she felt against her a 
quick, burning resentment. 

But neither noticed Hannah, and Mary 

was glad when at last John Brooks said he 
must be going. He meant well. Perhaps 

when he was young But Mary could not 

picture John Brooks when he was young. 

For refreshment she went, as always, to 
her friend. To turn the pages of the note- 
book and find the thought that awaited her 
was to Mary a more intimate communion 
than would have been possible through 
speech. It was looking into the mind, the 
very soul. It was a contact so intimate 
and vital that she often felt that sense of 
merged personality, that losing of self which 
is really an exquisite finding. 

And now, clearing the murk from her 
spirit, came this : " The only poverty we 
need fear is poverty of the inner man. For 
that to go hungry and cold and unsheltered 
is the great tragedy." 

Now, Mary Shelton was not so unread 
as to suppose that this thought had never 
been expressed before. But, as always, she 
found in her friend's words something far 
more precious than literary or philosophic 
merit. She found the clear reflection of a 
spirit ; in all that he said she found him. 

To the portrait in the attic studio, how- 
ever, she seldom went. She would have 
said that it made her sad. She saw in it 
the restlessness, the painful yearning, of the 
artist's struggle for development and expres- 
sion. And the canvases he had left offered 
no comfort. They were ambitious, but 
crude, and mostly unfinished. How sorely 
he had needed to get away, to breathe a 
freei atmosphere, to feel the touch of kindred 
spirits ! 

Oddly enough, the note-book, that perfect 
reflection, gave no hint of thwarted aspira- 
tion, spoke no word of the cherished art. 
But Mary read between the lines ; here clearly 
the man had escaped from all the fetters that 
bound him, even from the disappointment 
and struggle associated with his art. 

Never in all her life had Mary Shelton been 
so beautiful as when, alone in the little study, 
she pored over the dim pages of the note- 
book. As she read, within her always 
quickened that delicate excitement, that 
wonder and delight of recognition. To be 
sure, when she emerged, she had to be 
retuned to the every-day contacts of life — 
to Hannah, inquiring about dinner, to John 
Brooks, dropping in more and more often on 
his way to the new cottage. They, good 
souls, never know how jarringly they touched 
on the delicately-strung Miss Shelton. 

Yet, by so admirably playing their humble 
parts of housekeeper and landlord, these two 



made it possible for Mary to taste the perfect 
savour of her adventure. As the season 
waned she began to realize this. She lingered 
oftener in the kitchen, a pleasant place, 
and she felt less impatient with John 
Brooks, There was so little time left ! She 
sometimes even flashed near in that quick 
way of hers — sweet fire instead of a distant 

She thought of asking him to give her the 
note-book. Of course, to leave it behind 
would not be to leave her comrade. She 
might even copy the contents ; and so she 
would if her landlord wished to keep it. 
But why should he ? Forgotten for years in 
that dusty drawer, it had awaited her coming. 
If she hadn't been a true daughter of her 
Puritan forebears, she would simply have 
taken it. 

One day, when John Brooks was sitting at 
peace on the veranda, she made her request. 
44 There's an old note-book in a desk upstairs. 
I'm going to ask you to give it to me." 

He looked at her out of puzzled eyes. He 
would have given her anything in the house, 
and she asked for an old note-book ! 

" I'll bring it down/' Mary volunteered. 
" I've — I've been reading it. And I should 
like to keep it. " 

She turned away hastily, the blood in her 
cheeks. She had suddenly realized that her 
reading of the note-book might not seem — 
well, exactly the right thing. And when 
John Brooks discovered it to be a record of 
his brother's thoughts, he might think her 
request a strange one. She actually lingered 
in the little study, half afraid to go down again. 
Then she braced herself against the man's 
complacent, material stolidity. He could not, 
of course, realize her spiritual ownership of 
this book. If she told him that through its 
pages she had met her predestined comrade, 
he would not even know what she meant. 

While Mary went after her crystalline 
reflection of a spirit, John Brooks, a very 
palpable figure of a man, sat looking towards 
his factories over the river. Mary caught 
him at it when she came back. He probably 
enjoyed seeing their smoke sully the blue of 
the sky. A swift rush of impatience drove 
away all her hesitation. As he turned towards 
her she handed him the note-book. 

Then she sat down and looked resolutely 
at the sea. But she heard the precious leaves 
turning. Oh, he wouldn't understand a word 
he read ! Still, the handwriting might revive 
a certain sentiment. 

" Upon my word, this fellow has Friend 
Emerson beaten to a standstill ! " 

John Brooks was chuckling — chuckling 
in heavy, stupid amusement. Mary, looking 
at him, flashed fire ; but he didn't see. 
His eyes were on the written page. Then 
he said : — 

" Listen to this : ' Every soul must carry 
its own torch ; but the lighted soul may 
kindle the unlighted.' " 

" Don't ! Oh, please, please don't ! " 

John Brooks looked at her in surprise. 

" I can't bear to hear you mock at it," 
Mary faltered. A sense of the futility of 
trying to explain checked further speech. 

John Brooks gave his attention again to 
the page before him. He turned it, read, 
then read another. Gradually his face 

" He knows now," thought Mary. Her 
breath caught in her throat. The man had 
loved his brother, though in a dull, uncom- 
prehending way. Perhaps he would not care 
to give her the book, perhaps he would feel 
disturbed at her calling it to his attention. 

Again that chuckling laugh broke in upon 
her delicate perturbations. Mary longed to 
snatch the book from him ; flashes of indig- 
nation scorched her. But under her burning 
eyes John Brooks laughed on. He was no 
longer reading ; he was looking to her to 
share his amusement. 

" Well," he exclaimed, " it's like seeing a 
fellow get up out of his grave ! " 

Mary shuddered. She had not thought 
him so callous as that. Her eyes glowed 
with a sort of anger as she watched him. 

But John Brooks was lost again in his 
reading, and as he read his face changed. 
The deep lines softened, the mouth relaxed 
and grew tender. Little by little, layer by 
layer, the mask of the years seemed to be 
thinning, as if some divine hand were stripping 
it away. And now the light was shining 

To Mary it was all a tribute to her comrade. 
It was his spirit that was stirring and awaking 
the torpid spirit of his brother. It was no 
longer futile to speak, to explain. She leaned 
eagerly forward. 

" I want to "tell you what that book has 
meant to me." 

The man raised his head. Under the stress 
of her emotion, Mary's voice had taken an 
exquisite, resonant note. Her eyes, starry 
with tears, looked straight into the eyes ol 
John Brooks. 

" It gave me," she went on, " what I 
have never Ihacl before in all my life — a 
true comrade. When I read in it, I am talking 
with him ; when I lay it away, he is still with 



"nOS'Tl* HE SA1P, UUSKJLV. ' IT ATI. COMES BACIi| ; |f.J|V£^ip]p 'OWlKJHtti^.tt » EVEN TUE 




me. Our thoughts always meet ; he has 
awakened me to new life. In finding him I 
have found myself — oh, I think you will 
understand ! As I watched you reading I 
felt you would understand." 

She broke off. John Brooks seemed 
struggling to speak. The heaviness, the 
stolidity, was stripped from his face now. It 
was sharp with feeling, tense with pain, 

" Don't I " he said, huskily. " It all comes 
back. Fd forgotten about it; even the 
handwriting was unfamiliar. Those ideas 
used to come into my head ; I'd write them 
out at the old desk upstairs in my little study. 
Then Fd come down and play on my violin. 
It's in there on the piano now* I haven't 
touched it for years. 

" I used to think I was going to write 
books ! Well, I made shoes instead* I had 
to do something of that sort. Rod couldn't 
-^t least, it wouldn't have been right to 
force it on him. And I got too busy to write 
those things down, too busy even to think 
them, I'm afraid/' 

He did not look at Mary, but at that smoke 
from his factories which stained the sky. 
And she sat quite still. Nothing was clear 
to her. She vibrated to some unbelievable 
shock — a shock that had changed the world. 
And through all the chaos of reconstruction 
two figures took shape ; she saw John Brooks 
bending over the desk upstairs, his young 
face alight ; then she saw him toiling through 
the years 3 bearing the burden for himself and 
his brother. 

The other figure was that of his brother. 
His portrait came to her as clearly as if she 
stood before it in the attic studio, and it 
seemed that a veil had been drawn away 
from the face. She saw it weak, selfish, 
dissatisfied. And then the canvases showed 
themselves : mute witnesses of wavering 
purpose and flagging zeal. 

"He never did a stroke of work, Rod 

didn't, only his painting ; and none too much 
of that." 

The agent's forgotten words had flashed 
into Mary's mind, and they were followed 
by Hannah's unheeded testimony : " He 
never did much but fretting to tire him. 
Mr. John never wasted his time fretting. 
He worked" 

Mar)' hid her face in her hands* So sud- 
denly had those vapours of star-dust and 
prism-lights been swept away that she could 
scarcely bear the frank , uncompromising 
revelation* It was the man before her whose 
presence she had felt when she first entered 
the house, whose % r oice had spoken to her 
when she found the note-book. 

Lifting her face, she leaned suddenly for- 
ward. She laid a hand on John Brooks's 

" I didn't know/' she said. " I have been 
so blind ! I didn't know." 

Under her touch the man sat motionless, 
rigid ; he seemed scarcely to breathe, Then 
the love he had shackled and denied leaped 
suddenly free, a visible thing. He turned, 
and Mary, trembling, rose to her feet. He 
rose also. 

" No/' he answered l " you didn't know. 
But those things you said — about what the 
book has meant to you — 1*11 never forget 
them ! They've given something back to 
me. If I ever feel I'm losing it, I'll say 
them over and over. Oh, I know to you 
it's as if you had said them about another 
man " 

He stopped, gripped by the anguish of it; 
and Mary made a little involuntary move- 
ment, His pain hurt her intolerably. But 
with the hurt was something else, something 
overmastering and strange and sweet. She 
struggled against it, then put her hands out 

" No/' she whispered — ■" no. It was not 
another man. It was you ! " 


by Google 

Original from 



\V has come upon me something 
in the nature of a shock that 
I have become that fearsome 
thing, u a record in the annals 
of Drury Lane Theatre/' Last 

Illustrated by 
Alfred Leete. 

the bathroom as my studio, and started on 
what I vainly hoped might be the picture of 
the year. I was never allowed to finish it 
The servants contracted sore throats from 
the smell of the size ; the house reeked of it 
for weeks. My sister's pet kitten died from 
sampling the colours ; my younger brothers 
fairly wallowed up to their eyes in paint, and 
nobody could use the bath because it held 
my paint-pots. Ultimately an irate parent 
destroyed the canvas and confiscated all my 
materials. Thus, perhaps the work of an 

year conferred upon me the 

unique distinction of having artistic genius has been lost to posterity for 
held the reins of government at Drury Lane ever. 

Theatre for a longer period than either of 
my predecessors. And by the end of the 
present pantomime season I shall have com- 
pleted eighteen years as a manager, 

I dread to think how the years have flown 
since at my earnest entreaties my father, 
in whose footsteps I had failed to follow as 
an architect, apprenticed me to Henry Emden, 
the scenic artist at Drury Lane, 

My sojourn in the paint-room seems now 
to have been all hard work for very little pay, 
but I do not regret the long hours I devoted 
to this labour, for I still love to paint scenes. 
In my youthful enthusiasm for the art I 
attempted once to execute a masterpiece. 
When I was living with my parents I took 
home a huge stretch of canvas, innumerable 
earthenware pots, and any amount of colours 
and size. The subject of the picture was, 
I believe, an attempt to illustrate an incident 
in Coleridge's (i Ancient Mariner" I used 

As an actor I never really shone. There 
is one incident in my early career, however, 
which has left an everlasting impression. 
A well-known manager wrote and asked me 
to cat! at his London office with a view to 
arranging an engagement to play a small 
part in a piece which lie had out on tour. 
Exceedingly proud at receiving this request , 
1 arrayed myself in all my best clothes, and. 
cutting what I thought was a remarkably 
dashing, handsome figure, I called at the 
office. The manager was away, but I was 
received by his lady secretary. She gave me 
one swift glance, and said, '* How remarkable \ 
Why, you are iL n 

I was very nervous, and stuttered, " Do 
you mean I — I — shall suit the part ? " 

II Yes/' she replied ; " vou are made for it. 
" What is the part ? '' I asked, anxiouslv. 
* ( It will be s^nt to you by post to-night, 

sh tl^telTW^ICHIGAN 



I was highly delighted, rushed home, and 
eagerly waited for the script. Eventually 
the precious packet arrived, but imagine my 
disgust when I read the author's description 
of the character, " Enter Joe Adams, a 
hooligan of the most repulsive and aggressive 
type, a loathsome creature/ 3 

The secretary — or so I presume by her 
remarks — meant to be kind, and did not want 
to damp my youthful ardour. 

However, finding myself " a record/' I may 
perhaps be forgiven for looking back with 
^ feeling of gratification and pride to the 
day when I first ventured into management. 
It was no light matter to follow in the well- 

Wood, Sir Henry Irving ? Ellen Terry, Sir 
J. Forbes-Robertson, Sir George Alexander, 
Mrs. Patrick Campbell; Fanny Brough, 
H. B + Irving, Henry Ainley, and many other 
notable actors and actresses. 

Amongst the many modern famous authors 
whose works have been produced at Drury 
Lane, I might mention the names of Sir 
Francis Burnund, Hall Caine, George Bernard 
Shaw. Stephen Phillips, and George R, Sims. 
The domain of music has not been neglected 
during my r&gime* English opera was success- 
fully produced in 1902 by the Moody-Manners 
Company and Italian opera in 1909. and, 
last but not least, the beautiful performances 
of the Russian opera ballot during .Sir Joseph 
Beecham's season will not easily be forgotten 
by all true lovers of music and things artistic. 

It has been and will continue to be my 

policy to endeavour to please all tastes, 

re to appeal to the catholic tastes 


made path of Sir Augustus Harris, 
and I do not mind confessing that it 
was with some qualms that I assumed 
the position, 

Drury Lane is the only existing 
theatre about which there still lingers 
a great historical atmosphere. Its 
stage has been trodden by every 
great exponent of the English drama, 
amongst whose names may be mentioned 
EUiston, Dowtonj Bannister, Wallack, Mrs* 
Clover, the Kembles, the Keans, Grimaldi, 
Braham, Young, Mrs, Nisbett, Storace, 
Harley, Keeley, Mme. Vestris, Helen Fauci t, 
Ellen Tree, Macready, and many others. 

Perhaps better known to the present 
generation w r ill be the names of some of the 
popular favourites who have appeared during 
my management. These include Mrs. John 

by L^OOgle 


of the public recalls an amusing story con- 
cerning my predecessor. Sir Augustus Harris, 
We were rehearsing an Elizabethan drama, 
and Harris, in the opinion of the author, was 
taking liberties with the period as regards 
certain effects, taking full advantage of what 
we term dramatic license, The author writhed 
under the ordeal, and at last, unable to control 
himself, rose in his seat and shouted, angrily, 
" Sir Augustus, Sir Augustus, will you please 
Original from 




remember that this is a drama in the time of 
Queen Elizabeth ? " 

Harris looked scornfully at him and 
retorted, " Will you please recollect, sir, 
that this is Drury Lane under Gus Harris ? " 

It is necessary sometimes to sacrifice 
historical accuracy in details for the sake 
of obtaining a good dramatic effect. Breadth 
of treatment on a stage of the magnitude of 
Drury Lane is the first essential. Harris 
knew his public thoroughly, and he was right. 

Harris, I am afraid, however, was some- 
what ruthless when dealing with the work 
of dramatic authors, and it was Henry 
Hamilton who once christened him " the 
literary Jack the Ripper," for whenever the 
manager of the National Theatre thought 
a play too long his custom was to ask for 
a pin and, taking a dozen pages at random, 
stick them together and say, " They're out ; 
now go on." 

It is an extraordinary, fact that he firmly 
believed in the existence of the " Evil Eye," 
and I shall never forget one opera season at 
Covent Garden when he expressed his earnest 
conviction that the leading baritone in the 
company was the possessor of that unlucky 
influence, and the " great Gus " became more 
firmly convinced on this point when one 
night, as the singer made his entrance on to 
the stage, a scene fell down into the orchestra, 
frightening seriously, if it did not injure 
severely, the prima donna. 

" I knew something would happen — I knew 
something would happen ! " repeated Sir 
Augustus, excitedly, and as he did so the 
chair on which he sat broke down beneath 
him. That finished it. " Go and give that 
man a month's salary in advance ! " he 
thundered. " And make it a, condition of 
his getting it that he shall never again come 
into this theatre, at either the front or the 

The unlucky baritone took his salary, and 
from that day to this I have heard nothing 
more of him. v; 

Believers in the supernatural, of course, 
will at once see in the dismissal of this baritone 
the beginning of Harris's success, but there 
is another story which will interest them even 
more. It is solemnly affirmed that the ghost 
of Sir Augustus used to walk the stage regu- 
larly every night on the stroke of twelve. 
This is no invention on my part, for I have 
met people who claim to have actually seen 
the ghost. Indeed, at one time it was the 
talk of the night watchman, and the whole 
place rang with the matter. The tale went 
that " Druriolanus " came nightly in spirit 

form to conduct a ghostly rehearsal, and 
was to be seen pacing the stage, waving his 
arms and gesticulating in the old familiar 

I remember that Dan Leno was so impressed 
with the story that he resolved to watch one 
night to ascertain if fate would favour him 
with another view of the " dear old governor." 
But Dan either got tired or fell asleep, for 
I never heard any result of the project. 

But superstition, of course, is associated 
with the stage in a very marked degree. 
Indeed, I know of no calling in which there 
are so many queer beliefs. Occasionally one 
comes across a prominent actor or actress 
who defies superstition and, in the eyes of 
other members of the profession, does the 
most outrageous things. I remember a 
popular comedienne confessing on one 
occasion that she is no believer in good or ill 
luck. " I suppose," she said, " I am some- 
thing of a fatalist. If a thing has to happen 
it will happen, and it is not the avoidance 
of green gowns or curtains, of thirteen at 
table, of opening an umbrella on the stage, 
or of any other of the thousand and one 
old wives' tales, that is going to prevent 
any trouble falling upon a person marked out 
for an attack by fate." 

As if to emphasize her opinion, she wore 
a brand-new green gown in the next play in 
which she appeared. And a propos of the 
umbrella theory, she recalled the fact that 
during the whole of the run of a celebrated 
musical comedy she sang a favourite number 
under an umbrella. 

It is, of course, a settled article of faith in 
the theatrical profession that a black cat 
brings luck, and, if I am not prolonging this 
subject too far, I should like to retail a little 
story of the last engagement the great Ristori 
fulfilled in England. This was at Drury Lane 
when she played Lady Macbeth in English. 
That fine, robust actor of the old school, 
William Rignold, had just marched on in 
his character of the guilty Thane, and was 
apostrophizing the " secret black and mid- 
night hags" 
in vigorous 
fashion, when 
there entered 
a character un- 
known to the 
prompt - book 
or to the bard 
— the theatre 
cat, to wit, 
Rignold gazed 
at the spectSJn 




with wrath , which presently developed in the 
following fashion : — 

** Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me 
more — h'shj h'sh ! — say from whence you owe 
this strange intelligence— hsh, h'sh ! — why 
upon this blasted heath — h'sh, h'sh ! — you 
stop our way — h'sh, h'sh !— with this pro- 
phetic greeting — h'sh, h'sh ! " 

For a few moments Pickles, the theatre 
grimalkin, replied to Rignold's glare with a 
cool 3 steady look, and then coolly turned its 
back on him and walked majestically off the 
stage. Of course, the audience roared, and 
one was only thankful that Ristori herself was 
not in that scene. 

My inclinations have always been in the 
direction of creating and producing large 
effects, and my belief in this policy has, 
I feel sure, had a great deal to do with the 
success of the productions at Drury Lane, 
particularly with the series of dramas which 
commenced with " The Derby Winner." 

The latter, by the 
way , was the cause of 
one of the most laugh- 
able unrehearsed inci- 
dents I ha ve ever known* 
At the first performance 
everyone was agog with 
excitement when the 
great racing scene came 
on. Mrs, John Wood 
shouted, " They're 
off ! n the crowd howled, 
the band played, and I 
beg^n to tear my hair, 
for, to the strains of 
" See the Conquering 
Hero Comes" and the 
dismay of everybody, 
the villain's horse 
romped home, Clip- 
stone, the mount of 
Harry Eversfield, the 
hero, being in the list of 
u also ran." Clipstone, 
it appeared, had been 



" pulled "in the most audacious manner by 
a jockey that Gardener Hales, the animal 
provider, had supplied to Drury Lane, and 
whose duty it was, on this particular occasion, 
to hold the horse. Whether he had done it 
purposely because he was not allowed to 
ride, Harry Eversfield being the actual jockey, 
or whether it was an accident, I don't know ; 
but anyhow, " Druriolanus M was equal to 
the occasion, 

Walking down to the footlights, he said, 
when the laughter had subsided a little, 
" Ladies and gentlemen, I know what you 
are laughing at "—huge derisive laughter and 
cheers—" but you must remember that the 
winning-post is half a mile farther down 
the course, and I was standing there at the 
finish of the race, and I give you my word 
that CKpstone j the Derby winner, was first 
past the post." The sully took, and the 
audience seemed quite satisfied. 

It was during a rehearsal of another drama 
some years ago that I was the victim of 
an incident which even now makes me smile 
when I think of it. It was shortly after the 
installation of a new heating apparatus, and 
I sat in the stalls with a well-known dramatic 
author conducting a rehearsal. A 
small-pox epidemic had just broken 
out, and my companion had been 
vaccinated. Presently he noticed 
that I seemed a trifle restless, and 
asked If anything was the matter. 
'I am feeiing a bit feverish/* I 
replied, u Small-pox, old chap," 
he suggested, " Please 
don't joke about it like 
that," I protested* Then 
he began to mop his 
brow. " I don't 
feel at all well 
myself," he 
volunteered ; 
"I'm getting 
feverish, too." 
A few r minutes 
later things grew 
serious all round, 
and perspiration 
rolled dow T n his cheeks. 
ik Let's go and see a doc- 
tor," 1 gasped, and, as 
wr were about to leave, 
a workman approached 
with the remark j " Beg 
pardon ? sir; 'eating hap- 
paratus satisfactory ? " 

over a heating valve ! 



In the large crowd which is constantly 
employed at Drury Lane one comes across 
all phases of human nature. The besetting 
sin is vanity ; everybody wants to keep well 
in the limelight, and it sometimes becomes 

a wreath ? ' ,5 A roar of laughter greeted this 
sally, and effectually silenced my tormentor. 

One of the pleasantest recollections of my 
later managerial days was my association 
with Sir Henry Irving., and I much appre- 

annoying to the manager who has to do his dated the honour he did me by accepting 
best to make everybody occupy his proper the hospitality of Drury Lane Theatre. His 
place in the picture. An instance of supreme seasons, both in 1903 and 1905, were brilliant 
vanity occurred during the House of Commons successes, and it is a source of pride to record 
scene in lt The Price of Peace. iJ The part of that Drury Lane was the last London theatre 
Speaker was assigned to one of the walking-on in which he played before his death. More 
gentlemen, who was evidently disappointed interesting still, perhaps, is the fact that it was 

during his first season — to be 
exact, July 14th, 1903— that 
he made his last appearance 
with Miss Ellen Terry, 

It was always a pleasure to 
work with Sir Henry Irving, 
He had such a keen sense of 
humour that any troubles which 
appeared ended 
in a smile. A 
story will illustrate 
the dry humour of 
the great actor. He 
allowed his stage 
manager to take 
the preliminary 
rehearsals of his 
crowds, and then 
he attended and 
gave the finishing 
touches. During 
a rehearsal of 
' ( Dante," the 
manager had care- 
fully drilled his 
people, and waited 
anxiously for the 
words of praise 
which he expected 
to fall from the lips of the chief. 
Irving gazed critically for a long 
time at the antics of the crowd 
and murmured, "Excellent, my 
boy ; excellent, 11 The manager swelled visibly 
with pride j and then Irving added, ** But 3 my 
boy, this is Hell, not Hampstcad Heath." 

1 suppose more changes have taken place in 
pantomime than in any other form of enter- 
tainment. That which satisfied the public 
a few years ago is now a dead letter. The 
old-fashioned pantomime which existed in the 
days gone by would not be accepted by the 
present generation. 

A criticism of pantomime produced in 
1852 , entitled, " Harlequin Hudibras, or Old 
Dame Durdcn 3,rd the Droll Days of the 


at not having anything to say. The chief 
situation in the scene, and the one which 
brought the curtain down, was the sudden 
death of the Prime Minister, and after every 
rehearsal the " Speaker " would weary me 
persistently about inserting some lines to be 
spoken by him after the tragedy. And he 
usually made this request when I I was very 
busy discussing details with the authors. 

One day an old scene- shifter, overhearing 
the inevitable interruption, " Can't I say 
something here, Mr. Collins ? " chipped in 
with the remark, " Why don't yer get up and 
say, ' Wot abaht a shillin' subscription for 

M m^TMf^ uch ^P 6 ™ 6 has 



been evidently lavished. Hudibras and Squire 
Ralph were all that masks could make them, 
and Dame Durden and Charles II., with 
Antiquity and Improvement, contribute to 
the business of the scene. At the bidding of 
the last lady it changes to the Sydenham 
Crystal Palace by moonlight." Can you 
imagine an audience of to-day, which requires 
everything on a most magnificent scale, with 
all the leading lights of the variety and musical- 
comedy stage, sitting this out ? The places 
of the principal boy and girl must be taken 
by high-class operatic singers ; the red-nosed 
knockabout comedians of a decade ago have 
given way to men like that past-master in the 
art of gagging, Mr. George Graves, and that 
inimitable character-artist, Mr. Will Evans. 
The word pantomime as applied to the present- 
day production at Drury Lane is almost a 
misnomer. It is really a blend of comic opera, 
fairy tale, and topical revue, designed to appeal 
alike to children and grown-ups. 

These pantomime recollections remind me 
of one sad incident in my busy life. I refer 
to the untimely death of Dan Leno. A greater 
comedian never lived. He was a genius if 
ever there was one. Give him an idea with 
the faintest semblance of a funny situation, 
and he could make more out of it than any 
man I ever knew. I remember when he was 
playing the part of a baroness I arranged a 
scene for him — the kitchen of his palace — and 
suggested he should go through the trades- 
men's books with Harry Randall. Well, Dan 
Leno did wonders with that idea. He built 
upon it and built upon it. By instinct, some- 
how, he hit off all the idiosyncrasies of a 
suburban housewife, and the vast audience, 
recognizing the comic side of the tribulations 




il ... g^ — : 


paying even this slight tribute to the memory 
of a man who in his lifetime I held in great 
esteem. He was a prince of jesters, a man 
of infinite variety and resource. 

I suppose, however, that pantomime brings 
me more worries than any other type of 
production at Drury Lane, and if anyone 
were to ask me what was one of the greatest 
nuisances of my life I could truthfully reply 
the person who writes to me suggesting ideas 
for pantomimes. One lady who wrote to me, 
I remember, said she had had no experience 
of pantomime work, but having made a great 
success of Christmas - card designing, she 
thought, as she would like a change, she 
could prove very useful to me in the matter 
of arranging pantomimes at Drury Lane. 

Then there is the inquisitive person who 
wants to know whether the " principal boy " 
pads her legs, or whether they are her own, 
and I remember when Miss Marie George was 
appearing at the Lane an inquisitive person 
wrote, " I should be very much obliged if you 
could discover for me Miss Marie George's 
recollections of her first time in trousers — in 
other words, when she first played a boy's 
part, and any humorous details about the 
occasion." I believe the latter query was 
referred to Miss George's husband, who 
laughingly replied that he did not know when 
she first donned them, but that she was still 
" wearing the breeches." 

Although we all work hard during the 
rehearsals of pantomime, I may mention that 
we find time for a little relaxation during the 
luncheon hour. At Drury Lane my company 
regales me sometimes with impromptu glee 
singing, the following being a sample of their 
vocal efforts : — 

:*— 4 

T z=£ ±$ $m ^mm 

Woodbine, Woodbine, I love you. Woodbine, Woodbine, I'll be true. If I hadn't got a sou I'd 











con gran e*pr$$*ian$ rait. 



neither smoke nor chew ; but while Pre got a penny, Woodbine, I'll be tiue ! 

of housekeeping as portrayed by Dan Leno, 
rocked with laughter. His fun, though 
exaggerated, possessed verisimilitude to an 
extraordinary degree, and was always clean. 
I owe a great debt of gratitude to Dan Leno, 
for we achieved some of our finest financial 
successes in pantomime whilst he was with us. 
I am pleased to have an opportunity of 

Sometimes I may sigh for the peace and 
quiet of my beautiful garden at Wey bridge, 
and long to escape from the whirl and turmoil 
of theatrical production, but I am afraid if 
I followed out such spasmodic inclinations 
I should be far from content, for after all the 
true enjoyment of life lies in the work one 
finds most congenial. 




Romance ox 




Illustrated by Alfred Leete* 

ROSS1XG the Thames by 
Chelsea Bridge the wanderer 
through London finds himself 
in peasant Battersea. Round- 
ing the Park, where the female 
of the species wanders with its 
young by the ornamental water 
where the wildfowl arc, he comes upon a vast 
road. One side of this is given up to Nature, 
the other to Intellect. On the right, green 
trees stretch into the middle distance; on 
the left, endless blocks of residential flats. 
It is Prince of Wales Road, the home of the 

Police-constable Plimmer's beat embraced 
the first quarter of a mile of the cliffs. It 
was his duty to pace, in the measured fashion 
of the London policeman , along the front of 
them, turn to the right, turn to the left, and 
come back along the road which ran behind 
them, In this way he was enabled to keep 
the King's peace over no fewer than four 
blocks of mansions. 

It did not require a deal of keeping, Batter- 
sea may have its tough citizens, but they do 
not live in Prince of Wales Road. Prince of 
Wales Road's speciality is Brain , not Crime. 
Authors , musicians, newspaper men, actors, 
and -artists are the inhabitants of these 
mansions, A child could control them. 
They assault and batter nothing but pianos ; 
they steal nothing but ideas, they murder 
nobody except Chopin and Beethoven. Not 
through these shall an ambitious young 
constable achieve promotion. 

At this conclusion Edward Plimmer arrived 
within forty -eight hours of his installation. 
He recognized the flats for what they were — 
just so many layers of big-brained blameless- 
ness. And there was not even the chance 
of a burglary. No burglar wastes his time 
burgling authors. Constable Plimmer recon- 
ciled his mind to the fact that his term in 
Battersea must be looked on as something 
in the nature of a vacation. 4 OOC 

He was not altogether sorry. At first, 
indeed, he found the new atmosphere soothing. 
His last beat had been in the heart of tem- 
pestuous Whitechapel, where his arms had 
ached from the incessant hauling of wiry 
inebriates to the station, and his shins had 
revolted at the kicks showered upon them by 
haughty spirits impatient of restraint. Also, 
one Saturday night, three friends of a gentle- 
man whom he was trying to induce not to 
murder his wife had so wrought upon him 
that, when he came out of hospital, his 
already homely appearance was further 
marred by a nose which resembled the gnarled 
root of a tree. All these tilings had taken 
from the charm of Whitechapel, and the 
cloistral peace of the Prince of Wales Road 
was grateful and comforting. 

And just when the unbroken calm had 
begun to lose its attraction, and dreams of 
action were once more troubling him, a new- 
interest entered his life, and with its coming 
he ceased to wish to be removed from Batter- 
sea. He fell in love. 

It happened at the back of York Mansions. 
Anything that ever happened, happened 
there ; for it is at the back of these blocks of 
flats that the real life is, At the front you 
never see anything, except an occasional 
tousle-headed young man smoking a pipe ; 
but at the back, where the cooks come out 
to parley with the tradesmen, there is at 
certain hours of the day quite a respectable 
activity. Pointed dialogues about yester- 
day's eggs., and the toughness of Saturday's 
meat, are conducted fortissimo between cheer- 
ful youths in the road and satirical young 
women in print dresses who come out of 
their kitchen doors on to little balconies, 
The whole tiling has a pleasing Romeo and 
Juliet touch, Romeo rattles up in his cart- 
*' Sixty-four ! " he cries. u Sixty-fower, sixty- 
fower, sixty-fow " The kitchen door 

opens, and Juliet emerges. She eyes Romeo 
without any gtt&t show of affection, " Are 



you Perkins ant] Hlissett ? " she inquires, 
coldly. Romeo admits it. 1( Two of them 
yesterday's eggs was bad.'* Romeo protests. 
He defends his e^gs. They were fresh from 
the hen ; he stood over her while she laid 
them. Juliet listens frigidly. " I dont think," 
she says, " Well, half of sugar, one marmalade , 
and two of breakfast bacon/* she adds, and 
ends the argument. There is a rattling as 
of a steamer weighing anchor ; the goods go 
up in the tradesmen's lift, Juliet collects 
them j and exits, banging door. The little 
drama is over. 

Such is life at the back of York Mansions 
— a busy, throbbing thing. 

The peace of afternoon had fallen upon 
the world one day towards the end of 
Constable Plimmer's second week of the 
simple life, when his attention was attracted 
bv a whistle. It was' followed by a musical 
"Hi ! n 

Constable Plimmer looked up. On the 
kitchen balcony of a first-floor flat a girl 
was standing As he took her in with a slow 
and exhaustive l i/< he was aware of strange 
thrills. There was something about this girl 
which excited Constable Plimmer. I do not 
say that she was a beauty ; I do not claim 
that you or I would have raved about her. 
1 merely say that Constable Plimmer thought 
she was All Right. 
"Miss?" he said. 

11 Got the time about you ? p * said the girl. 
14 All the clocks have stopped/' 

" The time/' said Constable Plimmer, con- 
sulting his watch, bL wants exactly ten minutes 

of four." 
M Thanks." 
"Not at all, miss.™ 
The girl was in- 
clined for conversa- 
tion. It w T as that 
gracious hour of the 
day when you have 
cleared lunch and 
haven't got to think 
of dinner yet, 
and have a bit of 
time to draw a 
breath or two. She 
leaned over the 
balcony and smiled 

"* If you want 
to know the time, 
ask a pleeccman/ ' 
she said " You 
been on this beat 


jltized by ^-OOglC UNIVERSITY 

long ? 




" Just short of two 
weeks ? miss." 

" I been here three 

" I hope you like it, 

" So-so, The milk- 
man's a nice boy/ 1 

Constable Plimmer did 
not reply* He was busy 
silently hating the milk- 
man. He knew him — one 
of those good - looking 
blighters — one of those 
oiled and curled perishers 
— one of those blooming 
fascinators who go about 
the world making things 
hard for ugly, honest 
men with loving hearts. 
Oh, yes, he knew the 

" He's a rare one with 
his jokes/ 5 said the girh 

Cons table Plimmer 
went on not replying. 
He was perfectly aware 
that the milkman was a 
rare one with his jokes. 
He had heard him. The 
way girls admired anyone 
with the gift of the 
gab — that was what 
embittered Constable 

"He"— she giggled— 
" he calls me 'Little 
Pansy Face/ ft 

" If you ' 11 excuse me, 
miss," said Cons table 
Plimmer, coldly, "Til 
have to be getting along on my beat/ 7 




Little Pansy Face ! And you couldn't 
arrest him for it I What a world ! Constable 
Plimmer paced upon his way, a blue-dad 

It is a terrible thing to be obsessed by a 
milkman. To Constable Plimmer's disordered 
imagination it seemed that, dating from this 
interview, the world became one .solid milk- 
man* Wherever he went, he seemed to run 
into this milkman. If he was in the front 
road this milkman— Alf Brooks ^ it appeared , 
was his loathsome name — came rattling past 
with his jingling cans, as if he were Apollo 
driving his chariot. If he was round at the 
back, there was Alf, his confounded tenor 
doing duets with the balconies. And all this 

in defiance of the known law of natural 
history that milkmen do not come out after 
five in the morning. This irritated Constable 
Plimmer. You talk of a man " going home 
with the milk " when you mean that he 
sneaks in in the small hours of the morning. 
Il all milkmen were like Alf Brooks, the 
phrase was meaningless. 

He brooded. The unfairness of Fate was 
souring him. A man expects trouble in his 
affairs of the heart from soldiers and sailors, 
and to be cut out by even a postman is to 
fall before a worthy foe ; but milkmen — no ! 
Only grocers' assistants and telegraph boys 
were intended by Providence to fear milkmen. 

Yet here was Alf Brooks, contrary to all 
rules, the established pet of the mansions. 
Bright eyes shone from, balconies when his 




14 Milk-oo-oo " sounded. Golden voices giggled 
delightedly at his bellowed chaff* And Ellen 
Brown, whom he called " Little Pansy Face/' 
was definitely in love with him. 

They were keeping company. They were 
walking out. This crushing truth Ed ward 
Plimmer learned from Ellen herself. 

She had slipped out to post a letter at the 
pillar-box at the corner , and she reached it 
just as the policeman arrived there in the 
course of his patrol. 

Playfulness after this was at a discount . The 
girl was frightened and angry, and he was 
scowling with mingled jealousy and dismay. 

4t Ho ! " he said. " Ho ! f Mr. A. Brooks/ » 

Ellen Brown was a nice girl, but she had 
a temper, and there were moments when her 
manners lacked rather noticeably the repose 
which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

u Well, what about it ? Ji she cried. " Can't 
one write to the young gentleman one's 
keeping company with without having to get 

permission from every " She paused, to 

marshal her forces for the assault. " Without 


Nervousness impelled Constable Plimmer to 
be arch. 

> l 'UIlo, 'ullo, 'ullo ! " he said, " Posting 
love-letters ? " 

** What— me ? This is to the Police Com- 
missioner, telling him you're no good." 

" 111 give it to him. Him and me are taking 
supper to-night." 

Nature had never intended Constable 
Plimmer to be playful. He was at his worst 
when he rollicked. He snatched at the 
letter with what was meant to be a debonair 
gaiety j and only succeeded in looking like 
an angry gorilla. The girl uttered a startled 

The letter was addressed to u Mr. A, 

having to get permission from every great, 
ugly, red-faced copper with big feet and 
broken noses in London ? " 

Constable Plimmer ? s wrath faded into a 
dull unhappiness. Yes, she was right. That 
was the correct description. That was how 
an impartial Scotland Yard would be com- 
pelled to describe him, if ever he got lost. 
" Missing.— A great , ugly, red- faced copper, 
with big feet and a broken nose." They 
would never find him otherwise. 

" Perhaps you object to my walking out 
with Alf ? Perhaps you've got something 
against him ? I suppose you're jealous," 


7 6 


She threw in the last suggestion entirely 
in a sporting spirit. She loved battle, and 
she had a feeling that this one was going to 
finish far too quickly. To prolong it she 
gave him this opening. There were a dozen 
ways in which he might answer, each more 
insulting than the last, and then, when he 
had finished, she could begin again. These 
little encounters, she held, sharpened the wits, 
stimulated the circulation, and kept one out 
in the open air. 

" Yes," said Constable Plimmer. 

It was the one reply she was not expecting. 
For direct abuse, for sarcasm, for dignity, for 
almost any speech beginning " What, jealous 

of you ? Why " she was prepared. But 

this was incredible. It disabled her, as the 
wild thrust of an unskilled fencer will disable 
a master of the rapier. She searched in her 
mind, and found that she had nothing to say. 

There was a tense moment in which she 
found him, looking her in the eyes, strangely 
less ugly than she had supposed, and then he 
was gone, rolling along on his beat with that 
air, which all policemen must achieve, of 
having no feelings at all, and, as long as it 
behaves itself, no interest in the human race. 

Ellen posted her letter. She dropped it into 
the box thoughtfully ,and thoughtfully returned 
to the flat. She looked over her shoulder, but 
Constable Plimmer was out of sight. 

Peaceful Battersea began to vex Constable 
Plimmer. To a man crossed in love action 
is the one anodyne, and Battersea gave no 
scope for action. He dreamed now of the 
old Whitechapel days as a man dreams of 
the joys of his childhood. He reflected 
bitterly that a fellow never knows when he 
is well off in this world. Any one of those 
myriad drunk and disorderlies would have 
been as balm to him now. He was like a man 
who has run through a fortune, and in poverty 
eats the bread of regret. Amazedly he 
recollected that in those happy days he had 
grumbled at his lot. He remembered con- 
fiding to a friend in the station-house, as he 
rubbed with liniment the spot on his right 
shin where the well-shod foot of a joyous 
coster monger had got home, that this sort 
of thing — meaning militant costermongers — 
was " a bit too thick." A bit too thick ! 
Why, he would pay one to kick him now. 
And as for the three loyal friends of the 
would-be wife murderer who had broken his 
nose, if he saw them coming round the corner 
he would welcome them as brothers. 

And Prince of Wales Road dozed on — 
calm, intellectual, law-abiding. 

A friend of his told him that there had once 
been a murder in one of these flats. He did 
not believe it* If any of these white-cor- 
puscled beings ever killed a fly, it was as much 
as they could do. The thing was ridiculous 
on the face of it. If they were capable of 
murder, they would have murdered Alf 

He stood in the road, and looked up at the 
placid buildings resentfully. 

" Grr-rr-rr ! " he growled, and kicked the 

And even as he spoke, on the balcony of 
a first-floor flat there appeared a woman, 
an elderly, sharp-faced woman, who waved 
her arms and screamed, " Policeman ! Officer ! 
Come up here ! Come up here at once ! " 

Up the stone stairs went Constable Plimmer 
at the run. His mind was alert and question- 
ing. Murder ? Hardly murder, perhaps. 
If it had been that the woman would have 
said so. She did not look the sort of woman 
who would be reticent about a thing like that. 
Well, anyway, it was something, and Edward 
Plimmer had been long enough in Battersea to 
be thankful for small favours. An intoxicated 
husband would be better than nothing. At 
least he would be something that a fellow could 
get his hands on to and throw about a bit. 

The sharp-faced woman was waiting for 
him at the door. He followed her into the 

" What is it, ma'am ? " 

" Theft. Our cook has been stealing." 

She seemed sufficiently excited about it, 
but Constable Plimmer felt only depression 
and disappointment. A stout admirer of the 
sex, he hated arresting women. Moreover, 
to a man in the mood to tackle anarchists 
with bombs, to be confronted with petty 
theft is galling. But duty was duty. He 
produced his notebook. 

" She is in her room. I locked her in. 
I know she has taken my brooch. We have 
missed money. You must search her." 

" Can't do that, ma'am. Female searcher 
at the station." 

" Well, you can search her box." 

A little, bald, nervous man in spectacles 
appeared as if out of a trap. As a matter of 
fact, he had been there all the time, standing 
by the bookcase, but he was one of those men 
you do not notice till thev move and speak. 

" Er— Jane." 

" Well, Henry ? " 

The little man seemed to swallow some- 

" I — I think that you may possibly be 
wronging Ellen. It is just possible, as regards 





the money ■" He smiled in a ghastly 

manner 3 and turned to the policeman, ft Er — 
officer, I ought to tell you that my wife— ah— 
holds the purse-strings of our little home, 
and it is just possible that, in an absent- 
minded moment, / may have " 

" Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that 
you have been taking my money ? 

t4 My dear , it is just possible that in an 
ah* » 

" How often ? " 



He wavered perceptibly. Conscience was 
beginning to lose its grip. 

"'Oh, not often," 

im How often ? More than once ? " 

Conscience had shot its bolt. The little 
man gave up the struggle. 

u No, no ; not more than once, Certainly 
not more than once." 

" You ought not to have done it at all. We 
will talk about that later. It doesn't alter the 
fact that Ellen is a thief. 1 have missed 
money half-a-dozen times. Besides that, 
there's the brooch. Step this way, officer." 

Constable Plimmer stepped that way, his 
face a mask, He knew who was waiting for 
them behind the locked door at the end of 
the passage. But it was his duty to look as if 
he were stuffed, and he did so. 
She was sitting on her bed, dressed for the 

street. It was 
her afternoon 
out, the sharp- 
faced woman had 
informed Con- 
stable Plimmer, 
attributing the 
fact that she had 
discovered the 
loss of the brooch 
in time to stop 
her to a d i r e c t 
interposition of 
Providence* She 
was pale* and 
there was a 
hunted look in 
her eyes, 

" You wicked 
girl ! Where is 
my brooch ? " 

She held it out 
without a word. 
She had been 
holding it in her 

"You see, 
officer ? " 

'I wasn't 
stealing of it, I 
'adn J t but bor- 
rowed it. I was 
going to put it 

"Stuff and 
nonsense ! Bor- 
row it, indeed ! 
What for ? " 

"I— I wanted 
to look nice." 
The woman gave a short laugh. Constable 
Plimmer's face was a mere block of wood — 

" And what about the money I've been 
missing P I suppose you'll say you only 
borrowed that ? " 
" I never took no money.** 




by itself. Take her to the police-station, 

Constable Plimmer raised heavy eyes. 

" You make a charge, ma'am ? " 

" Bless the man ! Of course I make a charge. 
What did you think I asked you to step in 
for ? " 

" Will you come along, miss ? " said Con- 
stable Plimmer. 

Out in the street the sun shone gaily down 
on peaceful Battersea. It was the hour when 
children walk abroad with their nurses, and 
from the green depths of the Park came the 
sound of happy voices. A cat stretched itself 
in the sunshine, and eyed the two as they 
passed with lazy content. 

They walked in silence. Constable Plimmer 
was a man with a rigid sense of what was 
and what was not fitting behaviour in a police- 
man on duty. He aimed always at a machine- 
like impersonality. There were times when 
it came hard, but he did his best. He strode 
on, his chin up and his eyes averted. -And 
beside him 

Well, she was not crying. That was some- 

Round the corner, beautiful in light flannel, 
gay at both ends with a new straw hat and 
the yellowest shoes in South-West London, 
scented, curled, a prince among young men, 
stood Alf Brooks. He was feeling piqued. 
When he said three o'clock he meant three 
o'clock. It was now three-fifteen, and she had 
not appeared. Alf Brooks swore an impatient 
oath, and the thought crossed his mind, as 
it had sometimes crossed it before, that Ellen 
Brown was not the only girl in the world. 

" Give her another five min " 

Ellen Brown, with escort, turned the corner. 

Rage was the first emotion which the 
spectacle aroused in Alf Brooks. Girls who 
kept a fellow waiting about while they fooled 
around with policemen were no girls for him. 
They could understand once and for all that 
he was a man who could pick and choose. 

And then an electric shock set the world 
dancing mistily before his eyes. This police- 
man was wearing his armlet ; he was on duty. 
And Ellen's face was not the face of a girl 
strolling with the Force for pleasure. 

His heart stopped, and then began to race. 
His cheeks flushed a dusky crimson. His 
jaw fell, and a prickly warmth glowed in the 
parts about his spine. 

" Goo ! " 

His fingers sought his collar. 

" Crumbs! "gilized by GoOgk 

He was hot all over. 
" Goo' lor' ! She's bin pinched ! " 
He tugged at his collar. It was choking 

Alf Brooks did not show up well in the first 
real crisis which Life had forced upon him. 
That must be admitted. Later, when it was 
over, and he had leisure for self-examination, 
he admitted it to himself. But even then 
he excused himself by asking Space in a 
blustering manner what else, he could 'a' done. 
And if the question did not bring much balm 
to his soul at the first time of asking, it 
proved wonderfully soothing on constant 
repetition. He repeated it at intervals for 
the next two days, and by the end of that 
time his cure was complete. On the third 
morning his " Milk-oo-oo ! " had regained its 
customary care-free ring, and he was feeling 
that he had acted, in difficult circumstances, 
in the only possible manner. 

Consider. He was Alf Brooks, well known 
and respected in the neighbourhood, a singer 
in the choir on Sundays, owner of a nulk 
walk in the most fashionable part of Battersea, 
to all practical purposes a public man. Was 
he to recognize, in broad daylight and in 
open street, a girl who walked with a police- 
man because she had to — a malefactor, a girl 
who had been pinched ? 

Ellen, Constable Plimmer woodenly at her 
side, came towards him. She was ten yards 
off — seven — five — three. 

Alf Brooks tilted his hat over his eyes, 
and walked past her, unseeing, a stranger-. 

He hurried on. He was conscious of a 
curious feeling that somebody was just going 
to kick him, but he dared not look round. 

Constable Plimmer eyed the middle distance 
with an earnest gaze. His face was redder 
than ever. Beneath his blue tunic strange 
emotions were at work. Something seemed 
to be filling his throat. He tried to swallow it. 

He stopped in his stride. The girl glanced 
up at him in a kind of dull, questioning way. 
Their eyes met for the first time that after- 
noon, and it seemed to Constable Plimmer 
that whatever it was that was interfering 
with the inside of his throat had grown larger 
and more unmanageable. 

There was the misery of the stricken 
animal in her gaze. He had seen women 
look like that in WhitechapeL The woman 
to whom, indirectly, he owed his broken 
nose had looked like that. As his hand had 
fallen on the collar of the man who was 
kicking her to ickath, lie had seen her eyes. 



Thty were Ellen's eyes, as she stood there 
now — tortured, crushed , yet uncomplaining. 

Constable Plimmer looked at Ellen , and 
Ellen looked at Constable Plimmer, Down the 
street some children were playing with a dog. 
In one^f the flats a woman had begun to sing. 

" Hd^> it," said Constable Plimmer. 

He spoke gruffly- He found speech difficult. 

The girl started. 

" What say ? M 

u Hop it— get along — run away." 

" What do you mean ? " 

Constable Plimmer scowled. His face was 


scarlet. His jaw protruded like 
a granite breakwater. 

" Go on," he growled* M Hop 
it. Tell him it was all a joke. 
I'll explain at the station." 

Understanding seemed to come to her 

" Do you mean I'm to go ? " 
" Yes." 

1£ What do you mean ? You aren't going to 
take me to the station ? r 
" No." 

She stared at him ; then suddenly she broke 

" He wouldn't look at me. He was ashamed 
of me. He pn; tended not to see me.' 1 
She leaned a^ bark shaking, 





" Well, run after him, and tell him it was 

" No, no, no ! " 

Constable Plimmer looked morosely at the 
path. He kicked it. 

She turned. Her eyes were red, but she 
was not crying. Her chin had a brave tilt. 

" I couldn't — not after what he did. Let's 
go along. I— I don't care." 

She looked at him curiously. 

" Were you really going to let me go?" 

Constable Plimmer nodded. He was aware 
of her eyes searching his face, but he did not 
meet them. 

" Why ? " 

He did not answer. 

" What would have happened to you if you 
had have done ? " 

Constable Plimmer's scowl was of the stuff 
of which nightmares are made. He kicked 
the path with an increased viciousness. 

" Dismissed the force," he said, curtly. 

" And sent to prison, too, I shouldn't 

" Maybe." 

He heard her draw a deep breath, and 
silence fell upon them again. 

" Would you have done all that for me ? " 
she said, at last. 

" Yes." 

" Why ? " 

" Because I don't think you ever stole 
that money nor the brooch neither." 

" Was that all ? " 

" What do you mean — all ? " 

" Was that the only reason ? " 

He swung round, almost threateningly. 

" No," he said, hoarsely. " No, it wasn't, 
and you know it wasn't. Well, if you want it, 
you can have it. It was because I love you. 
There ! I've said it, and now you can go on 
and laugh at me as much as you want." 

" I'm not laughing," she said, soberly. 

" You think I'm a fool ? " 

" No, I don't." 

" I'm nothing to you. He's the fellow 
you're struck on." 

She gave a little shudder. 

" No." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" I've changed." She paused. " I think 
I shall have changed more by the time I come 
out of prison." 

" You're not going to prison." 

" Yes, I am." 

" I won't take you." 

" Yes, you will. Think I'm going to let 
you get yourself in trouble like that, to get 
me out of a fix ? Not much." 

" You hop it, like a good girl." 

" Not me." 

He stood looking at her like a puzzled bear. 

" They can't eat me." 

" They'll cut off all of your hair." 

" D>ou like my hair ? " 

u Yes " 

" Well, it'll grow again." 

" Don't stand talking ; hop it." 

" I won't. Where's the station ? " 

" Next street." 

"Well, come along then." 

The blue glass lamp of the police-station 
came into sight, and for an instant she stopped. 
Then she was walking on again, her chin 
tilted. But her voice shook a little as she 

" Nearly there. Next stop Battersea. All 
change ! I say, mister — I don't know your 

" Plimmer's my name, miss — Edward 

" I wonder if — I mean, it'll be pretty 

lonely where I'm going. I wonder if 

What I mean is, it would be rather a lark, 
when I come out, if I was to find a pal waiting 
for me to say, ' Halloa ! ' " 

Constable Plimmer braced his ample feet 
against the stones, and turned purple. 

" Miss," he said, " I'll be there, if I have 
to sit up all night. The first thing you'll see 
when they open the doors is a great, ugly, 
red-faced copper with big feet and a broken 
nose. And if you'll just say ' Halloa ! ' to 
him when he says * Halloa ! ' to you, he'll 
be as pleased as Punch and as proud as a 
duke. And. miss " — he clenched his hands 
till the nails hurt the leathern flesh — " and, 
miss, there's just one thing more I'd like to 
say. You'll be having a good deal of time 
to yourself for awhile. You'll be able to do 
a good bit of thinking without anyone to 
disturb you, and what I'd like you to give 
your mind to, if you don't object, is just to 
think whether you can't forget that narrow- 
chested, God-forsaken blighter who treated 
you so mean, and get half-way fond of some- 
one who knows jolly well you're the only girl 
there is." 

She looked past him at the lamp which 
hung, blue and forbidding, over the station 

" How long'll I get ? " she said. " What 
will they give me ? A month ? " 

He nodded. 

" It won't take me as long as that," she 
said. " I say, what do people call you— 
people who are fond of you, I mean ? Eddie, 
or Ted ? " 


How I 
" Broke Into Print. 


Dctng the Personal Statements of certain ^V^Il-known Authors explaining 
why th«y took to Literature as a Profession and how they first came to 
. make a " Hit with the Reading Puhlic 




OW did 
I come 
to take 
up literature as 
a profession ? " 
asked Mrs. Glyn, 
the author of 
"The Visits of 
El izabeth," 
"Three Weeks/' 
and other well- 
known books* 
" Well, 1 daresay 
I did it in a way 
similar to many 
other writers — as 
a distraction. 
And yet, possibly j 
there was a differ- 
ence. You know, 
about fifteen or 
sixteen years ago 
I became so 
crippled with 
rheumatism that 
I didn't care 
much whether I 
lived or died. 
You may believe 
how ill I was 
when I tell you 
that I had to be 
carried every- 
where — from the 
house to the lawn 

Vol xlk,— It 



when I wantfcd a 
change of scene 3 
and back again 
when I grew 
weary of the view 
and ached for bed. 
And I didn't 
know what to do 
to distract my 
thoughts. Long 
periods of ' think- 
ing 5 are not good 
for anyone , par- 
ticularly invalids, 
and I received 
many scoldings 
from my doctor. 
Then one day I 
began to wonder 
to myself what a 
young girl would 
think and feel 
during her first 
round of visits to 
country houses* 
When I was a girl 
I visited many 
country houses 
and kept journals 
of my doings, and 
I had a sudden 
longing to sec and 
read them again. 
So they were 
looked out, and I 
had some amuse- 
ment re - reading 






them. And as I lay in my lounge chair my 
imagination began to work and, with my own 
diaries for a foundation t I started to w f rite 
' The Visits of 

11 I knew so 
little a b out 
that I perpe- 
trated the 
fearful crime 
of writing on 
both sides of 
the paper in an 
ordinary copy- 
book. And no 
one pointed 
out to me the 
literary misde- 
meanour that 
I was guilty 
of* Then, when 
rny relatives 
used to come 
to see how I 
was, I would 
read them 
extracts from 
' Elizabeth/ 
and they 
appeared so in- 
terested that the idea of having the 4 Visits * 
published did not seem so preposterous alter 
alb So we sent them to the London World 
where they appeared anonymously. And after 
they had been running a little while friends 
began to send me copies of the paper, as they 
thought 'The Visits of Elizabeth * might 
cheer me up ! When they appeared in book 
form and proved so popular my interest in 
life revived and my recovery w p as rapid* 
That is how I * broke into print/ and to me 
it was a very pleasant way of doing so/' 

Elinor Glyn—or Mrs. Clayton Glyn, to give 
her her full name —does nearly all her writing 
at Versailles, and surely no one could have a 
more ideal spot for inspiration. Her method 
of work is interesting. She will not accept 
an " order Jt for a book, and will not publish 
anything that does not satisfy her, She does 
not write a line until the whole story is 
mapped out in her imagination. And then, 
lief ore she begins the actual work of writing, 
she relates tlu: stury t-ilher to her mother or 
to her daughter* If they do not approve of 
the plot, then the story is never written. If 
they do, then she works at white heat, and 
the novel is completed in a few weeks. All 
her characters and settings are based on actual 





P/kAu. LitfayettR. 

observation, and here the voluminous jour- 
nals she has kept all her life come in useful, 
though the disguise of art is naturally thrown 

over actuality. 
Mrs. Glyn con- 
siders that the 
best book she 
ever wrote is 
1L Halcyone" 
and this 
opinion is 
shared by a 
great many of 
her critics, 
11 It tells you 
what I be- 
lieve/' said the 
authoress, and 
any book that 
honestly does 
that is the best 
book that a 
writer can 

Like most 
famous novel- 
ists, Mrs, Glyn 
frequently re- 
ceives requests 
from would-be 
writers asking 
for " advice/' And this is the ct advice " she 
gives ; £t Never put in your story an atom 
of irrelevant material, and nothing that has 
not an intimate bearing on the thread. Never 
be afraid of your own convictions, and never 
write a word you don't believe." 

Mr, and Mrs. C. N. WILLIAMSON. 

The first story written by Mr, and Mrs. 
C. N. Williamson was., curiously enough, pub- 
lished in this magazine, Mrs, Williamson 
herself relates the incident. " Our first story 
written together was very short, and we 
called it L Midnight and the Man/ We were 
only just married then, and were living in a 
queer old Surrey farmhouse, with a trap- 
door in the floor of the drawing-room, and 
dark, mysterious woods ringing in the few 
acres of farmland. We used to feel the in- 
fluence of that trapdoor, I think, and try to 
live up to it ! Also we used to take long walks 
on moonlight nights in the woods, and talk 
over things we should like to do in future, 
and stories we should like to write. All our 
thoughts were thoughts of mystery and 
strange happenings, during those vvulks ; and 
it was out .o£ a conversation about queer 
things which might be invented that the story 


8 3 

cf i Midnight and the Man * was evolved 
under the Surrey pines. 

" At the moment we had no idea of making 
it into a story ; but I lay awake thinking of 
it, Then finally I could rest no longer, but 
got up and began scribbling. The whole of 
the idea was my husband's, and when he saw 
what I had done with it he was quite amused. 
Here and there I had been unscientific, and 
he, knowing everything that any amateur 
ought to know about mechanism , touched 
these parts up. 

14 The editor of The Strand was a friend 
of my husband's, and I, too., knew him. 

" ' I shall go and show that story to The 
Strand editor/ said L 

M ' No/ said my husband, 4 It's a queer, 
fantastic sort of thing. He mightn't care 
for it, but wouldn't like to refuse it, perhaps^ 
if it came from me/ 

M However, being an American, I disobeyed 
my English lord and master, I did take the 
story myself, and the editor did like it — or 
siid that he did. Anyhow, he published it. 
And after that we wrote together several 
short stories for The Strand before the long 
series which we called * The Scarlet Runner ' 
— a name given to many motor-cars since 
then, I really 
believe if we 
hadn't done that 
little story, * Mid- 
night and the 
Man/ written 
together for The 
Strand, it might 
never have oc- 
curred to us to do 
* T h e Lightning 
Conductor/ " 


Horace Annes- 
ley Vachell, who 
within a period of 
twenty years has 
given us a dozen 
or more exrellent 
novels, broke into 
print very easily 
and success- 

"Many years 
ago 3 5J he says, " I went down to hunt in 
Dorsetshire, and the first evening hap- 
pened to tell a story of life in a mining 
camp in Colorado. I had just come back 



Fhvta. Elliott & Fiit. 

from a big-game expedition in Wyoming. 
Next day I was down with an appalling 
cold and quite unable to get on a horse, let 
alone ride him. My host, as he rode off, 
said r * Why don't you write that story you 
told us and send it to some magazine ? ' 
I set to work at once. Miss Frith, daughter 
of William Powell Frith, the famous painter 
of * The Derby Day, 1 ' Coming of Age in the 
Olden Days/ and other well-known pictures, 
read my MS*, which I entitled ' Tiny, 1 and 
kindly offered to send it to some monthly 
periodical. Of course I was delighted, 
and the yarn was sent to Sir Douglas 
Straight, at that time editor of the Whitehall 
Revi&®* To my immense surprise and 
pleasure the story was accepted, paid for, 
and printed. That ? I suppose, started the 
cacoeihes scribendi* Anyway, it was the 
beginning ; and the end, I trust, is not yet" 


Before he became a writer of fiction Mr. 
H. de Vere Stacpoole studied medicine at 
various English hospitals. On his own showing, 
he was first drawn towards literature by the 
works of Carlyle and the German meta- 
physicians and poets. Then he became 

deeply interested 
in the French 
school of writers, 
and travelled 
much in France 
and other coun- 
tries. For several 
years he continued 
his travels and 
assisted in several 
deep-sea expedi- 
tions, the result of 
which was a valu- 
able monograph 
entitled <f The 
Floor of the Sea. " 
"The first story 
I ever wrote," he 
says, Lt was one 
called * Pierrot/ 
published by John 
Lane during the 
4 Yellow Book" 
era. Aubrey 
Ueardslev did the 
illustrations and 
cover design. I 
remember he was at Dieppe at the time, and 
wouldn't send the drawings in. I had to 
threaten him, through John Lane, with a 
shot-gun, and wan the:n Ihev arrived late and 



delayed the publication. The Beardsley figures 
on the cover and end papers of i Pierrot ' do 
not represent the characters of the story, 
They represent Beardsley's mind, 

" ' Pierrot * sold moderately — very moder- 
ately. A couple of years after it was pub- 
lished you could have bought copies exceed- 
ingly cheap. To-day you have to pay t^n or 
fifteen times the published price on account 
of the Beardsley pictures. 1 have two copies 
only. If I had known, and laid in two or 
three hundredweight, I would have done well 
— but I never was any good as a speculator. 

(( After publishing ( Pierrot * I wrote * The 
Blue Lagoon/ which, though not my first 
book, was my first successful book. I have 
seen a great deal of sea life, and I have always, 
as much as possible, mixed with the men who 
are the real toilers of the sea— the sailors, 
stokers, engineers 3 and deep-sea cable hands, 

" I got the chief character of * The Blue 
Lagoon ' out of the stokehold of a ship. It 
was south of the 
Canaries , and 1 
went down to the 
stokehold to help 
stoke — for fun — 
and I met this 
gentleman, a 
fellow -Irishman, 
He believed in 

11 You never 
know what gems 
you may find in 
life in the most 
places. This per- 
so n and his 
fairies presented 
me, literally, 
with a certain 
amount of suc- 
cess, and now I 
cannot even 
stand him a drink 
in return. He was 
a good fairy to 
me. It was a good 
ship, that, for I 
captured several 
more people out 
of it for fictional 

tb Sir Herbert 
Tree is produc- 
ing * The Blue 
Lagoon ' as a 
play, and I think 

he is looking about foT a suitable actor to 
take the part of the chief character. He 
could not find a better than my friend of 
the stokehold, so, if this should meet his 

3tc. ? etc; 


began her 
Lt As to my 






Ellen Thorney croft Fowler 
literary career as a poetess, 
4 breaking into print/ ,s she says, li I am 
afraid I was always, so to speak , * broken.' 
When I was a small child I wrote stories in 
' a big round hand/ but as I grew up I began 
to dabble in verses, and used to send them 
to the county journal. The first poem for 
which I received payment was called ' Lilies/ 
which was published in the Sunday Magazine* 
This may j perhaps, be fairly called the 
occasion on which 1 * broke into print/ From 
that time I contributed poems pretty regularly 
to the Speaker and to monthly magazines.'* 
In private life the Hon. Ellen Thorneycroft 

Fowler is Mrs, A. 
L. Felkin. She 
is the elder 
daughter of the 
first Viscount 
and in 1903 mar- 
ried Mr, Alfred 
Laurence Felkin. 
She lias, how- 
eve r, retained ? 
for writing pur- 
poses, the name 
under which she 
made her initial 
great successes. 
Mrs, Felkm's first 
two published 
volumes con- 
sisted of poems — 
" Verses Grave 
and Gay/* pub- 
lished in 1891^ 
and "Verses 
Wise or Other- 
wise/* in 1895, 

" For a long 
time/' continued 
Mrs, Felkin, M I 
wrote and pub- 
lished nothing 
but verse. My 
husband (but he 
was not my hus- 
band then, as we 
were both very 

Photo. Porter. Vtnfr 

Diversity of MicHiGAr ng)urscdme 



to try my hand at prose r but I assured him 
that prose was impossible to me, and wc 
had a lovers' quarrel on that point. Finally, 
however, he prevailed^ 
and I wrote a short 
story which was all 
narrative with no dia- 
logue at alt Again 
Mr. Felkin interfered 
anA urged me to try 
my hand at dialogue, 
and again we had a 
lovers' quarrel because 
I persisted that the 
writing of dialogue was 
the one thing I should 
never be able to do. 
But he was a most 
persistent young man, 
and would not listen 
to my reasons for 
being unable to write 
what he affirmed I 
could. And j o f cou r se ; 
in the end he pre- 
vailed, and now dia- 
logue is considered my 
strong point I 

4t After I had writ- 
ten and published a 
few short stories, Sir 
William Robertson 
N i c o 1 1 called upon 
me and said that 
—judging by what he 
had seen — he was sure 1 could write a 
long novel it I tried ? and he commissioned 
me — on behalf of Messrs* H odder and 
S tough ton — to write a novel combining 
London society and Methodism, as I knew 
a good deal about both* I solemnly assured 
him that it was impossible — I felt no inrlina- 
tion towards writing a novel and believed 
that my strength lay in the short story. But 
— like my husband — he prevailed in the end, 
and left with my promise to s see what I 
could do.' The very next day I seriously 
considered the matter. It seemed to me that 
I was without an idea^ and the mere writing 
of a hundred thousand words or so appalled 
me. However, when I be^an to reason things 
out, it seemed to me that most short-story 
writers eventually developed into full-grown 
novelists, and there was no particular reason 
why I should not do the same. So I went 
into my ' den/ took a sheet of paper, and 
there and then outlined the skeleton of a 
plot which grew as I became interested, and 
finally settled down to the framework of a 



real novel. I worked at it for four months, 
and then retrieved my promise to Robertson 
Nicoll by sending him the manuscript of 

* Concerning Isabel 
Camaby. J r 

" During the writ- 
ing of this novel I 
read aloud each chap- 
ter as I wrote it to 
my family circle and 
accepted their com- 
ments and advice 
thereon, which were 
often very helpful to 
me* My father was 
especially interested in 
my work and proud 
of my success j and 
my only sister, Mrs, 
Hamilton , author of 
my father's life and 
several novels, was a 
most valuable critic, 
while my mother^ as 
is the way of mothers 
all the world over, 
praised and en- 
couraged rather than 
criticized. Now I read 
my books in their 
embryo condition to 
my husband, 

" The scene of most 
of my earlier novels 
is laid in Stafford- 
shire (which I call Mershire), near Wolver- 
hampton (which 1 call Silverhampton), 
my native place. Nearly all my places are 
real, though my pe&ple are fictitious. Baxen- 
dale Hall in ' Fuel of Fire ' was really 
Wrottesley Hall, near Wolverhampton, the 
seat of Lord Wrottesley, whose daughter 
married my brother the present Lord 
Wolverhampton, It is true that Wrottesley 
Hall was burnt down three times, but the 
legend connected with Baxendale Hall was 
entirely my own invention and had no 
foundation in fact. The scene of my latest 
novels — notably ! Her Ladyship's Conscience * 
and 4 The Wisdom of Folly J — is laid in Kent, 
where my present home is situated. Neither 
my plots nor my characters are taken from 
real life, but all my places are, I can invent 
people, but not places. To me the last day 
of Creation would have been the easiest day's 
work ! TJ 

Mrs. Felkin is now hard at work on another 
novel, which, she says, has more of her real 
self in it thiPitfiPOal^RSfiV 1 Isabel Carnaby," 





'* I wrote my 'first novel, 'The Apple of 
Eden/ " writes Mr, £. Temple Thurston, 
iL when I was seventeen— that is, just nine- 
teen years ago. It shared the fate of most 
first books — it was refused where most I 
expected it to be taken, by the only publish- 
ing house where I thought I had a friend ! I 
lived in Ireland at the time, and not until 
I was twenty-one and married did I c:ome to 
London. There I had no friends at all, and 
I had started married life on two pounds a 
week. I was still writing — still with no 
success. Then , when I was twenty-two, I 
wrote l The Apple of Eden 3 again, not alter- 
ing the story, but improving the style of it. 
In the hands of an agent it went from one 
publisher to another, eventually being pub- 
lished by Chapman and Hall in England 
and Dodd, Mead, and Co, in America. " 


How Jack London " broke into print " is 
a story which has been told be fore , hut which 
is well worth the telling again. He himself 

was grown up, for the last chapters were 

Then Jack London left the ranch and went 
to Oakland, where he sold newspapers. He 
was eleven then, and from that age to sixteen 
he worked at anything that turned up. The 
number of occupations which at different 
times attracted Jack London must have run 
into many hundreds. 

" Then/' he says, " the adventure-lust was 
strong within me, and I left home. I didn't 
run j I just left— went out in the bay, and 
joined the oyster pirates,. The days of the 
oyster pirates arc now past, and if I had got 
my dues for piracy 1 would have been given 
five hundred years in prison. Oddly enough, 
my next occupation was on a fish patrol, 
where I was entrusted with the arrest of any 
violators of the fishing laws. 

" But you want to know how I * broke into 
print.' Well, in my fitful days I had written 
the usual compositions which had been praised 
in the usual way, and when I got a job in a 
jute mill I still had an occasional try at 
writing. One day my mother came to me 
says that ever since he was eight years old he 'and said that a prize was being offered in the 

has been on the hunt for his boyhood, and up 
to date has not found it, At fifteen he was 
a man and had been a u ranchman TJ for seven 
years. True, he had had* a few months of 
schooling at two schools, 
but never remembers 
ever learning anything 
at either. 

When he went with 
his people on a Cali- 
fornian ranch, London 
found time to read 
Washington I r v i n g's 
"Alhambru," He wasn't 
nine then, and he was 
so fascinated with the 
book that he wanted 
to discuss it with the 
other " ranchmen/ ' 
Hut to his dismay they 
knew nothing about 
books j and their ignor- 
ance shocked him, 
The hired men lent 
him dime novels, and 
as his work was to 
watch the bees while sit- 
ting under a tree from 
sunrise till late in the afternoon — waiting for 
the swarming— he had plenty of time to read 
and dream. His favourite book was Ouida's 
11 Signal ' and he read it over and over again, 
but never knew the end of the storv until he 





1 •k\jit. Hitffh Cecil. 

San Francisco Call for a descriptive article. 
She urged me to try for it ; she knew that I 
should win it ! And to please her I dveided 
to make an attempt; taking as my subject, 
'Typhoon off the 
Coast of Japan/ I was 
determined to write 
something with which 
I was fairly familiar. 
But I was working 
thirteen hours a day in 
the jute mill, and little 
time was left for com- 
pos i t i o m Very tired 
and sleepy, and know- 
ing I had to be up 
at half - past five, I 
began the article at 
midnight and worked 
straight on until I had 
written two thousand 
words, the limit of the 
article., but with my 
ideas only half worked 
out. The next night, 
under the same con- 
dition^ I continued, 
adding another U\o 
thousand words before I finished, and then 
the third night I spent in cutting out the 
excess. The first prize came to me s and the 
second and third went to students of the 

s nWEM^™ig^r ersitics - This 



success seriously turned my thoughts to 

writing, but my blood was still too hot for 

a settled routine, so with the exception of a 

little gush which I sent to the Call, and which 

that journal promptly rejected, I deferred 

breaking farther into 

literature until my mind 

was more fully settled. 
M In my nineteenth 

year I returned to Oak- 
land and entered the 

High School there. Of 

rourse t they had the 

usual monthly or weekly 

magazine — 1 forget which 

—and I wrote stories for 

it T consisting mostly of 

accounts of my sea and 

tramping experiences, I 

stopped there for a year, 

doing janitor work as a 

means of livelihood 3 and 

then left and was my 

own schoolmaster for 

three months, cramming 

hard in order to enter the 

University of California, 

To support myself I took 

a job in a laundry, and while ironing shirts 

and singeing collars evolved some of th^ 

plots which stood me in good stead in future 


" Then I left California and went to the 
Klondyke to prospect for gold. At the end 
of a year I was obliged to come out owing to 
an outbreak of scurvv, and on the homeward 
journey of nineteen hundred miles in an open 
boat 1 made the only notes of the trip. It 
was in the Klondyke that I found myself. 
There nobody talks. Everybody thinks* 
You get your true perspective. I got mine. 
After returning to California I had a bad 
stroke of luck* Work was scarce and I had 
nothing to do. Consequently my thoughts 
turned again to writings and I wrote a story 
called ' Down the River/ which was rejected, 






f'tvni a FH&tovmph. 

While I was waiting for this rejection I wrote 
a twenty-thousand-word serial for a news 
company. This was also rejected. But I 
wasn't discouraged. Just as soon as a 
manuscript was dispatched I would buckle 
to and write something 
else, I often wondered 
what an editor looked 
like, I had never seen 
one 3 and never^ at that 
time had cyme across 
anyone who had ever 
published anything. Then 
a Californian magazine 
accepted a short story 
and sent me Jive dollars. 
That was my second 
success in i breaking into 
print,' And when I had 
received forty dollars for 
another short story I 
began to think that things 
were on the mend, and so 
they were, 

" My first book— my 
real * break into print ' 
— was published in 1900 
under the title of * The 
Son o: the Wolf.* It was something of 
a success, and I had many offers of news- 
paper work. But I had sufficient sense 
to refuse to be a slave to that man-killing 
machine, for such I hold a newspaper to a 
young man in his ' faming ' period. Not until 
I was well on my feet as a magazine writer 
did I do much work for newspapers. Then 
it did not matter, for I was not obliged to do 
more than I cared , and could quit when the 
spirit moved me to do so. But I do not forget 
that I first t broke into print ' through a 
newspaper, and for that reason I have a kindly 
feeling towards the Press, I suppose 1 should 
have * broken into print T some time or 
another , but I always think it was my 
mother's faith in me that turned my attention 
to literature as a profession." 

(To be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 




//Zeis tra te cL Jbz/ 

Thomas Somerfield 

Hi | IttUllllflfUllUllllIltlllllUflililllllllUtltliilll 

ND the strike went on. 

It had raged now for months 
in Lanswik, the grey Dutch 
city that looks upon the 
greedy, encroaching sea. It 
had begun with a whisper 
and a threat and a fear ; it 
had grown, with the swift growth of noxious 
weeds, to a pestilence, a savage, devouring 
blight that held the once thriving city cring- 
ing and stagnant. And like a pestilence, hate 
walked the streets. 

It was a hate directed against one man. 
The struggle had crystallized down to a fight 
to a finish between the dock labourers and 
Peter Van Stel. 

They knew, very well they knew, that but 
for him the strike had ended long ago. His 
brother employers had weakened at the sight 
of blasted trade and idle ships. They had 
been ready for compromise, to discuss terms, 
it was known. But the will of Peter Van Stel 
had held as granite holds against the flails of 
the sea. 

And so the strikers starved ; and so, as 
the weeks crawled by, it was as though Peter 
Van Stel walked amid gusts of savage loath- 
ing, drew in the breath of hate. The ragged 
men cursed him vilely as they hung about 
I he streets ; the gaunt, haggard women 
spoke of him with the fury of wild beasts as 
they waited in their bare stripped rooms, 
and even the lean children stopped their 
listless play to fling filth, and words yet more 
uncleanly, as he went by. 

s yet m 

He never hid himself ; he never blenched 
or faltered. He walked to his office as he 
had always walked, in the teeth of all advice, 
although he knew well that thousands prayed 
for his death, that his murderer would be 
acclaimed the saviour of the town. He had 
not lacked threats. He knew that he carried 
his life in his hand whenever he appeared 
abroad. For, though this world be highly 
civilized to-day, its veneer can still be pierced 
by weapons forged from hunger and cold and 
hopeless waiting. And this story will tell of 
trappings that were stripped away by naked 
hate, and, incidentally, of a love that held no 

It is no light thing to stand against thou- 
sands, as Peter Van Stel stood. It was no 
light weight of responsibility that he bore 
upon his shoulders. To those thousands he 
loomed as an iron-handed tyrant, an ogre 
greedy for the gold they earned. They be- 
lieved with all honesty in their wrongs and in 
the claims for which they fought. And he 
knew that they were honest, but, as he 
believed, he had decided as honestly and with 
a clearer vision — decided as much in their 
interests as his own, seeing that if they had 
their way the works must be shut down 
and the livelihood of all cut off. They could 
not know that the thought of their long 
anguish was as lead upon his heart. 

He was a small man, with eyes that brooded 
and a pale, quiet face. To the careless eye he 
was insignificant, a man to be tossed aside. 



w him best told 



of a brain keen and cold as ice, and of a will 
that clove. If his charity were princely, it 
was a secret hid with skill. Perhaps in very 
truth no one knew the real Van Stel, or even 
cared to know him. That was suggested by 
the loneliness of which his eyes just hinted. 
He had lived for years alone, save for his 
servants, in his great house. Perhaps he was 
of those men who walk this earth in solitary 
fashion, searching for a shadow-woman whom 
their dreams have fashioned, who, when 
found at last, shall make of life a rainbow- 
tinted dream. 

It is probable that such men ask too much 
of life. And life resents their insolence. 

If he had always been lonely, his aloofness 
was now more marked than ever. It was as 
though the wolfish eyes of starving men and 
women had set a tragic mark upon him. So 
it seemed to Anna Krieman on the day that 
she saw him first. And a swift impulse of 
pity awoke in her heart, although she had 
been taught and was prepared to hate this 
lonely man. 

But she stifled that impulse swiftly, 
although indeed her heart was always apt 
for pity. She had lately come to Lanswik 
to live awhile in her brother's house, and 
since he was prominent among the strikers 
she was big heart and soul upon their side. 
And that despite the fact that education 
had lifted her above t' e more simple plane 
of her brother and his starving allies. From 
the school where she taught she had come in 
this time of holiday to force her savings upon 
her brother's wife and to be drawn whole- 
heartedly into this bitter fight. 

She was of those women whose sympathies 
are ever with those who seem to be ground 
down beneath the stronger hand. Her heart 
would ever be stronger than her brain, and 
the world may thank God that such women 
still are born. She was a tall girl, and her 
hair was like ripe wheat and her eyes had the 
deep, glowing blue of cornflowers in the sun. 
If those eyes guarded their secret jealously 
from grown-up folk, it was one that was read 
with ease by little children. To them she 
was never a stranger or to be feared. Nature 
had fashioned her to be a mother- woman. 
Her bosom was formed to be a deep, soft 
place of refuge, her hands were long and 
gentle and most apt for comfort, and 
her voice could be like music heard at 

It was the suffering of the children in this 
long struggle which tore at her heart. The 
men, as she believed, could fend for them- 
selves ; the women, despite her sympathy, 


repelled her at times by their shrill-voiced 
violence and their savage threats ; but the 
children — the children who had had nothing 
to do with the quarrel, who grew weak and 
thin and drooped wearily through those long 
days of aching want — the sight and thought 
of them filled her with generous rage. She 
had come almost to believe that this Peter 
Van Stel must be Satan himself in the shape 
of a human man. Only a devil could have 
the heart to torture helpless children. And 
from all her world she had heard again and 
again that this man, and he alone, was the 
cause of all. 

Oddly enough, fate willed in freakish 
fashion that through a child she should first 
of all have speech with Peter Van Stel. 

She had chanced to see him walking, and, 
as has been told, she had felt a swift instinct 
of pity for his loneliness. Then she had 
remembered, and a fiery wave of anger had 
risen in her heart. But a moment later she 
had ceased entirely to think of him. 

For a child came stumbling wearily over the 
cobbles, to fall with a weak cry at her very feet. 

She bent above it with a low answering cry. 
It was a boy of five or six, and it was apparent 
that he was faint with hunger. His face was 
white and pinched, and his hands were frail. 
His clothes were rags, but cleanly rags. As 
she raised him in her arms she could feel the 
cruel sharpness of his bones. And while she 
wondered what she must do, she heard a 

" Can I help you, madam ? " it said. 

It was Peter Van Stel who spoke. He was 
standing with bared head beside her. And 
she drew herself up, still with her arms about 
the child, and in her deep eyes there was 
contempt and a superb resentment. 

" No," she said. " I think it is not for— 
you to help." 

His eyes were on her face. 

" But I should wish to do so," he said, 

" You can help, but you will not," she 

The expression of his eyes changed in a 
subtle fashion as he heard her. Only his 
eyes ; the rest of his face seemed changeless. 
But even then she wondered. Just for a 
moment she wondered if indeed this grim, 
cruel man possessed a heart that felt. 

" I see that you know me, madam," he 

" All the town knows you ! " she flashed. 

" And hates me," he added, gently. 


^MitFSfMi,^" she 



14 'PQ,' shusaiu. 

Wze6 by CjOC 

'I THINK IT JS NOT FOft— YQU ip. HB^ r F,." , 


K — V 

Original trorn 



He made a faint gesture with his shoulders 
that was scarcely a shrug. 

" God knows/' he said. " He knows all, 
and it is for Him to judge. But the child is 

" It is faint with hunger, sir/' she said, 
sternly- " And there are many such in 

" I know that but too well," he answered, 
sombrely. " Do you think that I — take joy 
from their pain ? " 

" You can end it when you please ! " she 

Into his brooding eyes a smile crept just 
for a moment, and then was gone. 

" You are a good fighter and partisan, 
madam " he said. " You believe that the 
right is upon your side alone. And yet — 
always there are two sides. I am not in this 
matter with a light heart." 

He spoke to her as though she were a child. 
And that angered her. Yet his manner, with 
its grave kindliness, influenced her even 
against her will. She found herself compelled 
to spur her wrath against this ogre. 

" That may be," she said. " But it is 
very well for you. While you wait in 
comfort and uphold your theories, children 
starve ! " 

" That is true," he said, almost absently. 
" God knows that that is true." 

He drew a gold piece from his pocket. 

" I beg you to relieve the needs of this 
child, madam," he said. 

But she took the coin only to let it fall 
upon the cobbles as though it burnt her. 
The best of women can seldom resist their 
melodramatic instincts. 

" I will see to the child, sir," she answered, 
coldly. " And I think that we have spoken 

He stooped gravely and retrieved the coin. 
She felt fierce scorn for him as he pocketed it 
once more. She might have respected him, 
a very little, if he had let it lie ! 

" Yes, see to the child, madam," he said. 
" No doubt it is better so. But I would have 
you remember this. We masters depend on 
the men as they depend on us. We stand or 
fall together." 

" It is they who fall ! " she said. " You 
grudge them a living wage ! " 

" You have been misinformed," he 
answered, gravely. " And they have been 
ill-advised. There is a limit beyond which 
we cannot go " 

A tall, gaunt womap came clattering over 
the cobbles and swept up the child in her 

" I have been seeking him ! " she cried, and 
then, with a scream of rage, she recognized 
Peter Van Stel. " You ! You ! Do not 
dare to look at my boy, cruel scum and 
bastard that you are ! Your eyes would 
blast him ! You poison the air around you ! 
Why does God permit you to curse this 
town ? " 

Her crude violence seemed to leave Peter 
Van Stel unmoved. 

" Such speech serves no good purpose," 
he said, coldly. 

" Aye, there you are right ! " she screamed. 
" We have spoken and waited Jong enough — 
too long ! The men have beea too patient 
with you, vile devil that you are ! Now it 
is for us women to act ! Wait till we get our 
hands upon you ! We will have no pity — 
none ! And it will not be long " 

Again his eyes changed, and the look in 
them silenced even the maddened woman's 
stream of foul-tongued violence. 

" Peace ! " he said, grimly. " You have 
said enough ! " 

The woman dropped her eyes and slunk 
away, bearing the child in her arms and only 
muttering vile threats. 

Peter Van Stel turned to Anna Krieman. 
It seemed to her that his face, always pale, 
had whitened. 

" It is not good to be hated so," he said. 
" But I, too, have my beliefs. I leave you 
now, madam. If ever you will let me serve 
you, I beg that you will apply to me." 

He bowed gravely, and so they parted. 

They went their ways, and their thoughts 
were widely different. To Peter Van Stel it 
was as though a great thing had happened, 
a wondrous thing that had changed all his 
world in one short hour. Soon* or late, to 
each man -who has not soiled his dreams that 
thing and that hour may come. It seemed 
to him that he had found at last the shadow- 
woman for whom he had waited, wanting 
whom the world had been so lonely. Though 
she hated him, yet he had found her. 

And in the warmth and comfort of that 
thought he forgot for a little while the aching 
weight upon his shoulders, forgot the bitter 
hate that walled him round, that seemed to 
beat upon and sear his heart. There was a 
rare brightness in his eyes, a faint tinge of 
colour in his cheeks. He walked like a man 
with the sound of fairy music in his ears. 
He never heeded the fierce, lean faces that 
glared at him from the corners ; he did not 
even hear the voice, shrill with hate, that 
veiled *— ■ 

"W&frHj[«5W^tyKtfia$J enough, vile 



beast ! Look to yourself ! Our women shall 
deal with you now ! " 

If he had heard he would have shown no 
fear. Fear and this quiet, steadfast man 
had little in common. But he would have 
recognized the meaning of the threat, which 
might have sounded grotesque to one who 
did not know the savagery that lies beneath 
the stolid outer calm of these Dutch women. 
There is no littleness in them, for good or evil. 
They know no middle course, they shrink 
from nothing, when a flame has touched their 
hearts. It was the women of Holland who 
heartened the gallant burghers to fling off 
the yoke of Spain, starving patiently through 
the long, cruel sieges, fighting shoulder to 
shoulder with their husbands to hurl back the 
Spanish veterans from the splintered breaches. 
And history tells that the women struck with a 
wilder, more reckless courage than the men. 

And to-day these women are unchanged, 
for good or evil. It is they who make terrible 
these long conflicts between masters and men. 
It is they who will not yield. It is they who 
counsel grim reprisals. And once and again 
they have intervened with deeds from which 
their own men shrank appalled, too hideous 
to be set down in print. 

Indeed, it was no light threat that was 
shrieked at Peter Van Stel that day. But he 
did not hear it, walking with his dreams for 
company. And still they were with him 
when he reached his great, cold house. 

But Anna Krieman did not walk with 
pleasant dreams. He puzzled her, this man. 
He was not, surely he was not, so vile as they 
had said ? His eyes, those lonely, sombre 
eyes, surely they held a very human soul ? 
They had been oddly gentle as they met her 
own. But she would not permit herself to 
think of him with gentleness. There were 
the starving children whom he tortured, this 
man, to be remembered. He must be in the 
wrong, he must be ! She believed in her 
brother, grim and truculent as he might have 
grown under the lash of injustice. Time and 
again he had told her of their claims. A rise of 
twenty per cent, in wages the men demanded. 
The cost of food and living had mounted of 
late years with frightful speed. An increase 
of ten per cent, was the utmost that Van Stel 
and the employers would concede. 

" It will not do ! " her brother Simon said, 
over and over again. " Now is our time to 
strike. They cannot replace us now. We 
will not be fobbed off with ten per cent. Ah ! 
they live in their fine houses, and it is like 
parting with drops of blood for them to yield 
a fraction of their profits ! " 

" But is it certain that they can meet your 
demands ? " she had asked once. " You 
have said that shipping rates are low." 

" What if they are ? " Simon had said, 
grimly. " Let them feel the pinch a little, 
these rich swine ! The day has come for the 
world when labour demands its more equal 

Yes, she believed in Simon. At the least, 
with sheer misery pressing close upon her, 
with the wails of children in her ears, 
sharing herself in the actual stress of the fight, 
how could she fail in sympathy ? They were 
her own blood and kind. And the odds were 
cruelly against them. And though she was 
no fool, her heart had ever been stronger than 
her brain. 

In her brother's little house half-a-dozen 
women were gathered, haggard with famine, 
grim-eyed with rage long held. They were 
the wives of the strike leaders, and their 
babble of fierce speech seemed to be abruptly 
hushed at Anna's entrance. It was as though 
they had held a council, of whose import she 
must not hear. But Anna was too full of 
her news to heed that sudden ominous hush. 

" I have seen him and spoken with him ! " 
she cried. 

" With whom ? " asked Lisbeth, her 
brother's wife. 

" With Peter Van Stel himself ! He offered 
me money for a starving child, but I would 
not take it." 

The other women looked at each other. 
In the atmosphere of the little room, heated 
with human bodies, there was something 
vaguely menacing and terrible. 

" What else did he say, the devil ? " 
Lisbeth asked, and another woman broke in 
with language that may not be written. 

" He asked me to write to him if I needed 
aid," Anna said. " He — I almost believe 
that he wished to be kind ! " 

Lisbeth checked the savage growl that 
rose. She had the natural ability that lifts 
a man or woman to leadership above the 
common herd. Tall and well built, her face 
would still have been handsome but for the 
hollows dug by slow starvation. She spoke 
now with a cunning half veiled in her bright 
black eyes. 

" So ; it is well, perhaps. We were speaking 
of him but now. We wish to have speech 
with him, we women. Perhaps we may 
persuade him to reason. You shall write to 
him, Anna, and ask him to come to you here." 

" To come here ? " Anna said, doubtfully. 

" Yes ; he will come. He fears nothing, 

^ifcrefelT^fklTOSN 1 * *»* s P° ken 



with you, Anna, I think that he will trust 

" He has no fear, I think/' Anna said. 
" But you — what will you do ? " 

Just for a moment Lisbeth dropped her 
eyes. When she lifted them their savagery 
was under leash. 

" We shall speak to him, sister-in-law. We 
shall try to persuade him to agree to our 
men's terms. ,, 

" It is not — a trap ? " Anna asked. 

Lisbeth laughed shrilly. 

" Why should it be a trap, girl ? If he 
will but listen, all may be well. And you — 
you will have saved us all ! " 

Anna stood for a minute without speech. 
Her eyes went round the circle of lowering 
faces. In that moment she — she knew that 
more than mere speech with the tyrant was 
intended by these women ! That is to be 
remembered, as she" herself was to remember 
it. And the thought that she was to be used 
as a decoy was hateful to all that was noble 
in her nature. But — but— did this man 
spare others ? And yet — and yet 

At the right moment Lisbeth spoke. 

" The children are hungry. They should 
be remembered," she said, quietly. 

Anna threw out her hands. 

" Yes, the children, the little children ! 
Oh, I will do it ! Give me paper. When 
shall I ask him to come ? " 

" To-morrow evening at this hour," Lisbeth 
answered. ^ 

Anna bent her head to her task. Her 
hands were shaking. And Lisbeth, turning 
from her, looked round at the other women, 
and in her eyes was gloating, bestial, trium- 
phant hate. That glare was answered with 
its like. In that hour they were human 
tigers, those women, maddened by suffering, 
who crouched in the dim twilight of that 
room with gleaming eyes. 

Anna raised her head. The letter was 
addressed and sealed. Lisbeth, schooling her 
eyes, took it from the girl. 

" I will post it," she said. 

So it was done. And no time was left for 
doubt or hesitation. And Anna went grop- 
ingly to her small, bare bedroom, and threw 
herself upon the bed and cried very bitterly. 
It had no bearing on the case, of course, but 
she was remembering how Peter had wept 
after his betrayal. 

She did not sleep that night. Through the 
long hours she lay, without motion and 
forcing back her sobs lest she should disturb 
the two little nieces who shared her room. 
She was longing and praying that Peter Van 

Stel might be prudent, that he might be 
afraid to meet her in the house of his enemies. 
Should she warn him, even now, not to come ? 
But that would be betraying her friends. 
And there were the children to remember. 
Surely he would not come. Surely any man 
would view her suggestion with fear and 
suspicion. And yet — she did not believe 
that this man would fear. She believed, and 
dreaded horribly, that he would conle. 

And he came. 

He had read her brief note with a strange 
keen thrill. He also slept little through the 
night. He lay in the dark, and yet he walked 
through moonlit glades and over opal-tinted 
hills with a shadow-woman who had come 
from lonely dreams to change his world. 
Her hair was like ripe wheat, and Her eyes 
were like dark blue cornflowers, and a faint 
fragrance blown from rose-fields tilled by 
fairies was in his nostrils as he walked. 
Always he had hid his delicate dreams from 
a prying world with jealous care — this man 
whom the world thought cold and dull and 

Just for one brief moment the shadow of a 
doubt had crossed his mind. There had 
been many traps. And then he laughed, 
remembering those frank, brave eyes. She 
might be cold and scornful for a while, his 
shadow-woman, but she would have no part 
in traps. 

And so, when the grey, chill twilight was 
falling, he walked alone through the streets 
to the house of Simon Krieman. 

Alone in the little living-room, stripped of 
all that could be sold, she was awaiting him, 
his shadow-woman. And he wondered why 
her eyes loomed so large and dark from a 
face that was white as snow, and why her 
hands were clenched as though she would 
stay their trembling. Did she fear him, was 
she actually afraid of him ? She would fear 
no longer if he but dared tell her something 
of that which was in his heart. Perhaps 
some day he would dare to tell her. 

44 You sent for me, madam," he said, in his 
quiet voice, with its odd note of gentleness. 

He saw her moisten her lips before she 
could answer. 

44 Yes," she said. " I— I sent for you." 

The day was dying fast. The little room 
seemed to be filled with shadows. She stood 
among them, and her face was white and 
pinched and robbed of half its beauty. He 
caught himself wishing that he might see her 
in the sunshine among flowers. 

44 Is there anything " he began. 

And then the; door which he had closed 




|V 'IjfcJTjf ^/Lp.tichU'^tlp IT ! HB SKA[,L 

9 6 


behind him was flung open, and the room 
was filled with women — with women who had 
crouched, whimpering with hate, and waited 
for this moment. There was hate in their 
wild eyes, and hate in their working mouths, 
and hate in their clutching' hands. Not 
for nothing had they watched their children 

They crashed-to the door behind them, 
and for a tense moment they hung waiting, 
poised to spring. Peter Van Stel had swung 
round to face them. Now he turned and 
flung one swift glance at the white-faced girl 
standing with clenched hands beyond the 
table. And his lips shut close. He had no 
fear at all. Even in that moment the girl 
was sure of that, and her heart thrilled at the 

" What do you wish with me ? " Peter Van 
Stel asked, addressing Lisbeth Krieman. 

" What do we wish ? " she answered, 
shrilly. " One thing, only one thing ! You 
shall promise to end the strike, to give the 
wages that our men demand ! If not — if 
not " 

" Yes," said Peter Van Stel, quietly. 
" And if not ? " 

" We will make you promise ! " she shrieked. 
" We have got you, beast ! You are caught 
and trapped ! Promise, or, by the God that 
shall judge between us, we will force a 
promise from you ! " 

" I will not promise," Peter Van Stel said, 

Lisbeth Krieman laughed horribly. 

" You will not ? Wait till we have tried a 
little torture " 

Anna sprang forward. 

" No, no ! I will not have it ! He shall 
not be harmed ! I brought him here " 

She was between the women and the man. 
Just for a moment, as he heard her words, 
Peter Van Stel smiled. So, in spite of all, 
he had not misjudged his shadow-woman ! 
But that smile died swiftly. Lisbeth Krieman 

was beside herself. " Stand back, you ! " 

she shrieked. " Ah ! would you shield 

And she struck the girl across the mouth, 
with a blow that drew blood and sent her, 
faint and reeling, across the room. Peter 
Van Stel had drawn a silver whistle from his 
pocket. He blew one long call, and then — 
the women were upon him with the rage of 

He was like a child in the grip of their mad 
strength. They bore him back upon the 
table and held him there despite his struggles. 
They tore off his coat and bared his body 

to the waist. They had drawn the long 
combs from their hair, and they held them 
menacingly before his eyes and above his 
naked flesh. 

" Promise — promise swiftly ! " they howled. 
" If you value eyes and skin, you will 
make haste to promise ! Beast, animal, hog, 
be swift ! " 

He had ceased his vain struggles. Their 
hot breath beat down upon his face. He 
looked up at them with quiet eyes. 

" I will not promise," he said. 

And in that moment, it would seem, love 
came to Anna Krieman. As she leaned there, 
faint and dizzy, against the wall, as she saw 
this man at the mercy of these mad fiends, 
love worked its miracle. For surely it was 
not only shame and pity which sent her leap- 
ing forward with a wailing cry, which gave 
her strength to tear aside the intervening 
women, to cast herself above this man as a 
shield against their tortures? 

Only for a moment did that shield avail. 
They tore her away, they flung her heavily 
aside, they gave themselves to their work . .- . 

Upon her hands and knees, slowly, with 
painful effort, Anna reached the door. She 
heard one faint groan, and it was as though 
her own heart was pierced. Moaning like a 
child, she gained the open air. It was dark, 
dark, and yet there were wheels of flame 
before her eyes. God must not let her faint 
— oh, not yet, not yet ! She reeled a few 
paces, groping with her hands. She heard 
the patter of running feet, and called upon 
her flickering strength. 

" Help ! help ! They are killing hinv—in 
Krieman's house ! " she shrieked ; and then, 
as four men dashed past, she threw out h<$r. 
hands and let the darkness claim her. f 

For two weeks, through fourteen endless 
days and nights, she was like one whose brains 
are drugged. She crouched upon a bed and 
she did not cry. She knew certain things, 
since they were told her and she heard them, 
but they conveyed little to her. She knew 
that the strike had ended. She knew that 
the men, the better element among them 
sickened and horrified, had yielded to the 
masters' terms. She knew that there was to 
be no punishment for the torturing of Peter 
Van Stel. She knew that that had been his 
order from the bed where he lay, ill and 
broken, with the sight of one eye dimmed for 
life. She knew all these things, but her 
brain was dull and languid, and nothing 
seemed worth the effort and pain of thought. 

A,s tfMMfeMM&M ,ou4 that la y 



upon her mind, was one other matter, dark 
and shameful, which she dared not face. 

And then the cloud lifted and she faced 
that thing. It was she and none other who 
had lured Peter Van Stel to torture. 

For an hour she lay with twisting hands, 
confronting that thought. And then she 
rose and dressed herself, and went out into 
the streets. 

It was night time, and the shops were gay 
with lights. Somewhere, far above in the 
shadowy murk, a pallid sickle of a moon was 
shining. And a few pale stars gleamed 
down and seemed to mock her pain. Her 
heart was crying out that she had betrayed 
this man who had trusted her, and that 
somehow she must make atonement. Or 
failing that, at least she must win forget- 

Her vague wanderings led her at last to a 
little lonely, deserted jetty, beyond whose 
rotting piles the sluggish water glinted faintly 
as it swayed beneath the moon. 

But suddenly she felt oddly tired and weak. 
She must rest for just a little while before 
she trod her path. She had not slept for 
very long, and soon her head drooped wearily 
upon her breast, and she fell asleep. It may 
be that she dreamed of what might have 
been, for she was smiling very happily as she 

And it was there that Peter Van Stel came 
to her, brought by the men whom he had set 
to watch and guard her house. He left his 
carriage and limped slowly along the quay 
until he stood beside her. And she awoke 
and saw him standing bareheaded at her 
side. ^ 

Just for a monjbnt her smile endured. 
Just for a moment it seemed as though her 
happy dreams were true. And then she 
remembered, and her eyes filled with horror, 
and she cowered away from him with a low 

" Indeed, indeed, I would not have you 
afraid/ ' he said, with utter gentleness. 

" It was I who did it," she muttered. " It 
was I who brought you to that room ! " 

"Yes," he said. "You brought me, but 
you did not mean that harm should come. 
No," he went on swiftly, as she would have 
protested, made confession, " I will not 
believe it ! You were angered against me 
because your heart was bleeding for the 
children, but you had no thought of — of 
what befell. Oh, believe me, I know you 
better than yourself ! " 

" You are generous," she whispered. " But 
you have been ill, and they say — they say 

that your eyes " And she shivered as 

though in pain. 

" I am well once more," he said, quietly. 
" And my eyes will serve my needs." 

" I — I do not know what to say to you," 
she said, very low. " Though you are 
generous I cannot forget " 

" There is something also that I shall never 
forget," he said, gravely. " I shall remember 
that you strove to save me, that you put 
your own body between harm and me. 
Until I die I shall remember that ! " 

She did not speak. The world seemed 
very silent, save for the slow lapping of the 
waves. After a little while he said, " You 
thought that I needed punishment because 
of the children. It may be that you were 
right." And he smiled with quiet humour. 
" You wield great power, Anna. You can 
punish and you can reward. See, I have 
known you for but a little while, yet I know 
that it is in your power to make me happy." 

He knelt beside her where she sat, and fye 
put his arms around her. 

" I love you, dear," he said. " Is there 
anything that you can say to me ? " 

For a moment she waited, and he felt her 
whole body tremble. Then she drew a little, 
a very little, away from him, that she might 
look into his face. Her dark blue eyes were 
wet, but in them was a light for which — for 
which any lonely man might count torture a 
small price to pay. 

Vol. xlix.— 13. 

by GoOglc 

Original from 


As Funny as They C 




In the present number we have asked the Editor of "Puck/' the 
well-known American comic paper, to edit this section, and he has 
selected what he considers to be some of the best pictures contributed 

to " Puck " in recent years 

y Googl e 

Original from 
I VER>mi l FM I Crl l G ft 


TFACHKR OF GeOmkTry : 4[ What ! Your father luld you thai that was the shortest distance 
between l«fO points! What is your father?" 
lioY: "He iuns a laxicab, ma'w." I 



b, ma'am." 





" VLSlertbiy, Mr. James Fiiz - Mmirague cu-au-d ihe lead in a new Him for the 
Knockaliout Amusement Company*** — Dramatic Item* 

Si'RtiKON : " Resl nsaiiretl ilic opeifoiion will be successfi®ricJiW9l e f^6l'ff SLSt ° n1 ' casc ou1 °f 

M,' ju»f I've jus, Jos, four in suction ; UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 





Impuisevk Citizicn; **Hy Jove, I will do h. 
A man ought to see his own country, sure enough. 
Just Ii*ok at ihat view of the majestic Rockies ! 
I 11 buy the tickets at once." 

Impulsive CilUen (passing through the majestic 
Rockies) : "Gimme two cards 1" 



the monkev iudn't ljkb tkr kissing GA^QAfl^-fiKWiFi HUTO'3 i-ARTY. 





THE Gutstdbrs : "Say, Bill ! If you ain't got no more use for that cheese, you might 
just shove It out to us ! " 

IT LOOKSD THAT WAV. ,_->■ ^ frQm 
THB Monkey: " Great guns! Roosevelt just gone* .ai^^wlJierfi^^ 



After the Fact. 


Illustrated Ly Warwick Reynolds. 

ICKSON, the butler, was all 
against these migrations to 
the country directly the season 
was over in town. He dis- 
liked the neighbourhood of 
Dartmoor. There were count- 
less reasons he gave for his 
objections to leaving town, but the real one, 
to which he never alluded, was that he could 
not take his wig to the barber every week. 

Like all his sex, Dickson was vain ; the 
vanity of most men being to conceal their 
vanity if they can, wherefore a man will go 
to immense trouble and as much expense as 
any woman to appear quietly turned out. 
To achieve that appearance of being a well- 
dressed gentleman who will attract the atten- 
tion of none but those who know, a man will 
exhibit as much vanity as any woman in the 
world. In some manner of speaking, this 
was the vanity of Dickson. 

His master and mistress, Sir Harold and 
Lady Borthwick, they knew he wore a wig ; 
her ladyship's maid, she knew. The cook 
knew ; indeed, the whole household was 
aware of it. Yet there was his vanity. He 
had paid, for him, a considerable sum for that 
wig. It fitted him, as they say, to a T. 
Every week in London he took it to an ex- 
pensive barber's and, while in seclusion in an 
upper part of the premises, had it carefully 
combed and one grey hair added to its other- 
wise chestnut beauty. 

" One grey hair a week," he said — this was 
his vanity in calculation— -" that's fifty-two 
a year. Two hundred and sixty in five years' 
time. In twenty years I shall be getting 
white about the head." 

Yet the only people in a position to observe 
these increasing signs of age were those who 
knew it was a wig. That is like vanity, all 
over. In their presence he would often raise 
his hand to his head — quite genteelly, for there 
is a proper way of doing these things — and 
scratch certain different places, as though 
they caused him temporary discomfort. 

You may imagine, then, how much Dickson 
disliked these summer exiles to the country. 

After three months, when they returned to 
town, it meant the addition of thirteen grey 
hairs at once, which, besides being an unlucky 
number, took at least two days to do, when 
he was compelled to wear his second best wig, 
which did not fit him at all. Then the whole 
world knew, so much of it as saw him — and it 
was not a great deal. For those two days 
Dickson was as a sick man confined to his 

The whole household had been down on 
Dartmoor for a month, and Dickson was 
becoming reconciled to the discomfort of 
injured vanity — vanity injured by the know- 
ledge that his wig had not received all the 
attention that it required. Sir Harold and 
his wife dined alone every night, except when 
there were visitors. The children were always 
sent to bed. Dickson stood there in the deep 
shadows of that old dining-room while they 
solemnly pursued the six courses of a some- 
what elaborate dinner, sometimes almost in 
silence. Dickson had nothing to say against 
the dullness of this proceeding. He liked 
those deep shadows. 

" Anyone comin' into the room now," he 
would say to himself as he stood there, " would 
think to themselves, what a decent 'ead of 
'air that chap 'as." Vanity in contempla- 
tion draws all eyes upon itself. 

Taking the visitor's regard of him for 
granted, this most likely would have been 
true. It is far more likely, however, that the 
attention of anyone entering that old dining- 
room at such a moment would have been 
attracted to the four Queen Anne silver 
candlesticks, with their soft pink shades, in 
the centre of the small dining-table they used 
on these occasions. He would have observed 
the four old silver snuffboxes on the centre 
of that table, placed there for ornamenta- 
tion alone. And if he were a connoisseur he 
would have noticed the spoons and forks, 
shining their reflections in the polished 
mahogany surface — all Queen Anne silver — - 
every one of them Queen Anne. This was 
Sir Harold's hobbv. 

. u jffiv^ wji^iffliair^ ever t0 



be remembered by Dickson, that they sat 
alone at dinner together, and for the first two 
courses never spoke a word. It was, he 
would have told you, as he was serving the 
entree, that a sound in the far distance across 
the moor fell upon all their ears. Dickson 
paused as he handed the cutlets in aspic to 
his master. In the whole course of his ex- 
perience as a butler this was the first time 
he had known his attention to be distracted 
from his work. But the sound reaching them 
was such that, in the silence of that old house, 
far away on those lonely moors, the mind of 
any man would have been arrested. They 
all raised their heads to listen. The silver 
entree-dish with the cutlets in aspic was 
drooping lower and lower in Dickson's hand 
with this unexpected abstraction of his mind. 
Another instant and the cutlets would have 
gracefully dropped to the floor, when Sir 
Harold said : — 

" What's that, Dickson ? " 

Dickson recovered his equilibrium in time, 
saving the cutlets, and not a moment too 

" It was a gun, sir." 

He had no sooner said it than another 
sound trembled across the silence, faintly 
shaking the windows in their sashes. 

" Is it a convict escaped, Harold ? " asked 
Lady Borthwick. 

" Must be," said he. " The devil's got off. 
I don't know how the deuce they do it when 
you look at that place. Looks impossible to 
the outsider that anyone could ever get clear." 

" Poor, wretched man ! " said Lady Borth- 
wick, beginning slowly upon her cutlet. 
" One can't help feeling sorry for him." 

" It's safe to feel sorry at this distance," 
replied her husband. " It can't do you any 
harm, and doesn't do him much good." 

" No — but I would help him, if I could." 

" You'd help him ? " The whole dignity 
of citizenship took umbrage at that. " But 
he's a criminal. You can't help a criminal. 
That's a criminal offence in itself. You'd be 
an accessor)- after the fact." 

" I don't know what that means," replied 
Lady Borthwick. " Legal jargon never im- 
presses me ; but supposing the man were a 
friend of one's own, do you mean to say it 
would be a criminal act to help him when lie 
was in trouble ? " 

" Of course it would," replied Sir Harold, 

" Then I think the law's very silly," said 

" Not nearly so silly, my dear, as your 
suggestion that he might be a friend. How 

could a man like that possibly be a friend of 
ours ? " 

She was ready enough with her answer. 
She referred him to Lord William Pentland, 
the second son of one of the oldest families in 
the country. 

" He's serving his time now," said she, " for 
that emerald necklace he stole. Willie can't 
help it. He's a thief by nature. He has that 
craving for other people's valuables which 
we've all got. The only difference is, he's 
more candid about it. He admits it by taking 
them. You can't call him anything else but 
a criminal, and he's certainly a friend of ours." 

If Sir Harold could have brought himself 
to deny a friendship with the Pentland family 
he would have done it then and there. Find- 
ing that quite impossible, especially before 
Dickson, he said nothing. 

This was the most interesting discussion 
Dickson had listened to at that table for some 
time. He was of the opinion himself that it 
all depended upon how dangerous the man 
was. If he was dangerous, Dickson would 
have helped him to escape, accessory or no 
accessory. A whole skin, in Dickson's opinion, 
was well worth having. 

" Well— wouldn't you help Lord Willie ? " 
asked Lady Borthwick, pursuing her advan- 

"No," replied Sir Harold. "I'm an 
English citizen, and, as such, am conscious of 
the duties incumbent upon me. I hope that 
I should consider my country and the society 
in which I live before all such personal matters 
as friendship." 

These were the sentiments of a man com- 
fortably enjoying his dinner. His cutlet in 
aspic was extremely tender ; the cold peas 
with it were very tasty indeed. A mood of 
patriotism was their proper accompaniment. 
All these little luxuries he owed to the fact 
that he was an Englishman, a knight, and a 
successful man of business in the capital of 
that country to which he belonged. 

" Then you mean to say," said she, " you 
wouldn't help him ? " 

" I should do my duty," he replied, 
evasively ; and at that moment the bell at 
the hall door rang violently through the 
silence of the house. 

At such a moment, and with such a discus- 
sion in progress, it was scarcely to be wondered 
at that all their hearts— Dickson's as much as 
anyone's — trembled in their breasts like 
weights suspended from a slender wire, and 
then set off to beating each its liveliest tattoo. 

" Who car. that be,? " Sir Harold inquired. 

' "'MM&an 



Vol. xtix.— 14. 

-i^rd wiu.1.1' h* ««flfff^tYOF MICHIGAN 




It might be anyone, he thought, and pre- 
ferred to stay where he was. 

lt You'd better go and see," said Sir Harold ; 
and as the bell rang out again Dickson, with 
some reluctance, left the room. 

Sir Harold and his wife sat listening for the 
sounds in the hall. They said nothing. 
Their heads were turned slightly on one side 
as they strained to hear the faintest sound 
which could give them any suggestion of 
what was taking place outside. For the 
same thought had come, insistent and im- 
portunate, to both their minds. It had some- 
thing to do with the escape of the convict 
from Princetown. They felt sure of that. 
Either it was the warders in pursuit, _or, 
resultant upon their conversation but a few 
moments before, they imagined it might even 
be the convict himself.* It was known to have 
happened before. Quiet householders had 
been disturbed at night by desperate men 
fleeing from justice. Well— Sir Harold knew 
what he would do ; but he made just such a 
provision in his mind as Dickson had done. 
The man must not be too desperate or too 
dangerous. There were limits to one's sense 
of duty as a citizen. 

Neither of them, however, was prepared 
for what was to follow ; for the door opened 
revealing Dickson's blanched face and 
frightened eyes, while behind him they could 
see the close-cropped head of the escaped 
convict in all his prison clothes. 

Sir Harold rose with a blustering show of 
English indignation as the man pushed his 
way into the room. Then he stood back, 
leaning for support upon the table. 

" Lord Willie ! " he exclaimed. 

" He would come in, sir," said Dickson. 
" I couldn't stop 'im. Says he knows you." 

" Quite correct," said Lord William, affably. 
Then he bowed to Lady Borthwick. 

" Lady Borthwick," said he, " if there were 
time to apologize, I would. The self-invited 
guest ought at least to come to the feast 
decently dressed. Circumstances would not 
permit that. I'm in a hurry." 

" What's happened ? " asked Sir Harold. 

" Well — I've just left my friends at Prince- 
town, and they like my company, apparently. 
They want to have me back. They're re- 
markably hospitable in that way ; but I've 
got other business to transact." 

The lightness of his manner suddenly 

" What can you do for me, Borthwick ? 
I've got to get out of these clothes. You can 
lend me a suit — what's it to be ? They may 
be here any minute. They're on my tracks 

already. They'll have found out I came this 
way. In -a quarter of an hour they may be 
knocking at the door. Come on, man, come 
on — you must help me somehow or other. 
The suit's all right — give me a dress suit if 
you've got a spare one by you." 

" I always keep two suits," said Sir Harold. 
It was not a promise that he would let him 
have one ; but it was an opportunity of show- 
ing Lord Willie that he could afford to do 
himself well. 

" All right, then — but on second thoughts 
— it had better be an ordinary lounge-suit. I 
can be having dinner here with you dressed 
like that, can't I ? But it's my cropped head 
— that's what I'm thinking about. How am 
I going to get over that ? " 

He looked desperately at them both, and 
they, as was only natural, the same thought 
occurring to both their minds, turned round 
and looked at Dickson. In nervous apprehen- 
sion, Dickson's hand went swiftly to his head. 

" Can't dine in a hat, can I ? " said Lord 
Willie. " Course I can't — they'd twig that 
at once. What are you looking at him for ? 

By Jove ! You don't mean to say " He 

hurried across to Dickson and peered into his 

" It's not a wig— is it ? " 

For Dickson's sake they both kept silent. 
The situation was becoming painful, as well 
as unpleasant. It was up to Dickson .to 
admit it. 

" Lord William is waiting for an answer, 
Dickson," said Sir Harold, and then the 
wretched man, so prompted by his master 
and seeing the look of desperation in Lord 
William's eyes, confessed the truth. 

Lord William turned round with a smile 
of relief. 

" It's a simple matter, then," said he. 

" I beg pardon, my lord " Dickson 


" I said it's a simple matter," Lord William 
repeated. u Your wig — a suit of clothes — 
sitting quietly at dinner here. There's not a 
single one of them who'd believe it possible. 
I'd never counted on as much luck as this. 
But come along — we've got to be sharp about 
it. Just let's try it on now ; it ought to fit — 
well enough, anyhow." 

Here Lady Borthwick interposed. 

" But he can't ! " she exclaimed. " Poor 
Dickson ! it's really " 

This was womanly sympathy. She could 
imagine how he would feel. The best of 
woman's vanity is that they can sympathize 
with the vanity of others ;, the worst of men's 
vanity, that they can't. 



Sir Harold pooh-poohed this nonsense about 
Dickson's feelings. 

(t When the warders come/' said Lord 
Willie, " hell feel a good deal more comfort- 
able without his wig than I shall with It, f> 

" Quite so/ 1 said Sir Harold. " For the 
time being he must put up with the dis- 
comfort. Everyone in the house knows 
you've got a wig, Dickson. Come now — take 
it off and give it to Lord William at once/' 

Lady Borthwick looked her amazement, 

" Well— you surprise me, Harold/' said 

Then again his manner changed. Time 
was slipping by and his was a desperate need. 
A glance from his eye was enough to convince 
the timid Dickson that this was not a man to 
be played with. With infinite care he took 
the wig from his head, revealing that patheti- 
cally bald cranium which none of them in that 
house had ever seen before. 

" Trn not sure/' said Lord Willie, as he put 
it on., " that Dickson doesn't look better 
without it. Now — isn't that all right ? " 
He turned for them to see. 


she* " Especially after what we were saying 
a few moments ago/* 

Lord Willie regarded her with the most 
attractive expression in the world. It was 
everywhere admitted that he was a most 
fasti hating creature when he liked, despite 
his little failing. 

11 My dear Lady Borthwick/' said he, 
" believe me, I am suffering a greater incon- 
venience—in these — than the good Dickson/' 
He spread out his arms, the better to expose 
his prison garb. " They're not becoming. 
Lady Borthwick. Our tailor xO^ (there 
doesn't make tog well." 

" Not a had fit at all/' replied Sir Harold 
" It makes a tremendous difference. Now 
you'd better go up with Dickson to my room 
and get that suit. When you've given it 
to his lordship, Dickson, just come down 
here as quick as you can and lay another 

The wretched man was only too glad to 
disappear from the room. With a graceful 
bow to Lady Borthwick, begging them to 
waive ceremony and not wait for him, Lord 
Willie followed Dickson at once. 

" Well ! ■' sfi-id Lady Borthwick, as soon as 
the ddbli\tBWF. I^ipsighf . M f C Witt er all you've said 



— your talk about duty and citizenship, and 
all that nonsense ! " 

" What would you have me do? " asked 
her husband. 

" Do ? Why, let him find his own way 
out. You're a whatchermay-call-it after the 
fact now. You've become a criminal your- 

" Upon my soul ! " retorted Sir Harold. 
" If anyone's gone back on their word, sure 
it's yourself. After all your talk about 
friendship — brave words, I've no doubt — but 
they don't come to much." 

" Well, you don't call a man like that a 
friend, do you ? " said she. " He steals 
everything that takes his fancy." 

" He's the second son of the Earl of God- 
stow — you must remember that — one of the 
oldest families in England," replied Sir 
Harold. " I've no doubt his father will be 
very grateful to me when he hears." 

" Grateful ! I should think the old man 
would much sooner have him out of harm's 
way in Princetown. It's the right place for 
him. I think you're acting in a most Quixotic 
and ridiculous way. We may get into most 
terrible trouble over this." 

" I take it that this is the full value of your 
friendship," said her husband, hotly. 

" I can only suppose," she retaliated, " that 
this is what you consider to be the duty of a 
citizen to the community at large." 

Here was excellent material for a lively 
domestic quarrel. There is no knowing what 
might not have been said, but at that moment 
Dickson, thoroughly ashamed, thoroughly 
uncomfortable, entered the room. Their 
voices fell to silence as he laid another place. 

" He'll be recognized," said Lady Borth- 
wick, presently. " And then we shall be in 
a nice fix. What's the sentence for being a 
thingummybob after the fact ? " 

" I don't think he will be recognized, my 
lady," interposed Dickson. " He's got a 
moustache with him that he says he's been 
making — secret, of course — these last few 
months he's been in — that place over there. 
He's always contemplated getting off — so he 
told me." 

" Probably the warders won't come here 
at all," said Sir Harold. " Then he can get 
away to-morrow in his disguise, and we 
sha'n't hear anything more about it." 

'* He won't get away in my wig, sir," said 
Dickson, firmly. " He won't get away in that." 

" Well, Dickson — if it's made worth your 
while — we shall see. I shall tell the Earl 
about your generosity myself." 

Dickson had many more protestations to 

make. One's own dignity is more valuable 
than the gratitude of an earl. He was just 
about to say as much when the door opened 
and Lord Willie, another creature, entered 
the room. 

" Mr. Stevenson," said he ; " and very 
pleased indeed, I may tell you, to accept your 
generous hospitality." 

" Upon my soul, it's marvellous ! " ex- 
claimed. Sir Harold, but said no more. Once 
again the bell had clanged through the silence 
of the house. For one instant they all 
listened to it. Then Lord Willie was the first 
f to act. He took his seat at once at the table, 

" Go to the door, Dickson," said he. " Let 
'em in if they must come in, and come, as 
naturally as you can, and tell Sir Harold what 
it is." 

Tjembling for the issue, Dickson went. He 
was no good for this sort of play-acting, he 
told himself. In the dining-room they would 
have sat and listened as they did before, but 
Lord Willie started upon a flow of con- 

" I've been abroad," said he — " India — in 
the Civil Service. What's Bond Street like 
these days ? I was forgetting — I haven't 
seen it for six months." 

The door opened. This time it was Dick- 
son who was in the background. His bald 
head shone out of the darkness. Before him 
stood one of the Princetown warders in his 
sombre uniform. 

" I'm sorry to intrude at your dinner-hour, 
Sir Harold," he said ; " but I suppose you've 
heard the guns ? One of the convicts has got 
away. We're scattering all over the moor. 
I've been round the garden already, but I 
think I must ask you to let me have a look 
through the house. There's no knowing 
where these fellows will hide. They get 
desperate once they taste freedom. Can I 
go through the house now ? " 

Sir Harold rose to his feet. Lord Willie, 
seated with his back to the door, half turned 
in his chair, an interested listener. 

" I'll take you myself," said Sir Harold. 
" Of course, he might have got in by one of 
the windows, though it's hardly likely. 
They're all locked up at this time. Will you 
excuse me, Stevenson ? " 

" Certainly, my dear fellow — certainly," 
Lord Willie replied, in a deep voice. " Would 
you like me to come with you ? " 

" No, no ; you go on with your dinner." 
He turned to the warder. " Will you come 
this way ? " 

So little could the man believe that Convict 
716 wa<; under lu's very eyt[S that he paid no 



"*i'm sorry to intrude at your dinner-houb, sir harouV he ■saw, 'but I SUPPOSE 

YOU'VE HEARD THE GUNS? ONE OF THE ^ffflftfifffffi flffftf |,^ fj 



attention to Sir Harold's guest and followed 
him out of the room. 

The moment they were gone Lord Willie 
leant back in his chair and laughed. 

" Astute fellahs ! " said he. " He'll rum- 
mage through all your rooms till he's tired. ,, 

" He won't go to my bedroom, will he ? " 
said Lady Borthwick. 

" Oh, won't he ? He'll hunt everywhere.'' 

She jumped to her feet. 

"I'm not going to have him rummaging 
through my bedroom," said she, with righteous 
indignation. " I'll soon put a stop to that ! 
There is a limit to friendship." 

She went to put a stop to it, without a 
moment's delay. 

The instant the door had closed Lord Willie 
looked across at Dickson, standing there as 
far in the shadow of the corner as he could. 

" Dickson," said he, sharply, " how did 
that warder come ? Was he walking ? " 

" No, my lord ; he was on a bicvcle." 

" Good ! " 

He rose quickly to his feet. 

u Where did he leave it ? " 

" Just outside the door, my lord." 

" Good again ! He's a thoughtful fellah. 
Now, Dickson, if it's known that your master 
has been shielding me, he may get into trouble. 
You might get into trouble, Dickson, for 
lending me your wig." 

" Wouldn't be no fault of mine, my lord," 
said Dickson, quickly. " I wasn't allowed 
to do nothing else — not to say allowed." 

" Quite so. But the law is peculiar in these 
matters, Dickson. It has no sentiments. 
Now, I want to save your master from trouble, 
and I want to save you. First of all, we'll 
suppose that while they've been upstairs the 
escaped convict has got into the house — 
through the window." 

" The hall door is still open, my lord." 

" Through the hall door, then — excellent ! 
He's a desperate man, Dickson ; he wants 
money, he — yes — he sees this silver on the 
table." Lord Willie examined it — picked up 
one of the candles and looked with the eye of 
one who appreciates at the hall-mark. 
44 Beautiful silver this, Dickson." 

44 Queen Anne, sir." 

" Ah — worth a lot of money. All the 
better. He takes the silver." 

" What am I doing all this time, my lord ? " 
inquired Dickson, who, as the case was only- 
supposititious, presumed that he would be 
displaying some sort of courage. 

" You are covered by a revolver in the con- 
vict's hand. You have no option but to do 
as he tells you." 

" How about the other gentleman, my 
lord ? " 

44 Lord, yes— I'd forgotten him. He must 
have followed Lady Borthwick upstairs. 
But that warder took so little notice, Dickson, 
I think he won't even ask about him. Well, 
as I said, he takes the silver. He puts the 
room in darkness — he gets the warder's 
bicycle, and he's off — with the silver in his 
pocket. Beautiful silver this is — three- 
pronged forks." 

" All Queen Anne, my lord." 

" Beautiful. Now, out with those electric 
lights. I'll blow out these candies. Then 
I'll hide the silver under the table. They 
won't think of looking for it there — or looking 
for it at all. The warder will be after me. 
They'll never know the story isn't true, and 
I shall be out of the country in these clothes 
by to-morrow morning." 

He blew out the candles. 

" Now the electric light." 

Dickson obeyed — the room was in utter 
darkness. In that sudden transition of light 
the butler could see nothing. 

Lord Willie still continued his flow of 

" Now I'm hiding the silver under the table," 
said he ; " but as soon as I go and you hear 
the hall door bang you switch up the lights 
and call for help. They can't catch me then. 
I shall have a disguise ; I shall have a bicycle ; 
I shall have two minutes' start of 'em." A 
thought suddenly occurred to him. " Sir 
Harold hasn't got a car here, has he ? " 

44 Well, he has, my lord, but it's gone to 
Exeter for repairs. It comes back the day 
after to-morrow." 

" Well — a bicycle's better than nothing," 

" But how about my wig, my lord ? " 

" Dickson — you must take my word for it 
that you shall have it back by post the moment 
I'm out of the country. I can't do better 
than that. Now — I've hidden all the silver. 
I'm off now, and as soon as you hear the door 
bang — up with the lights and call for help." 

Dickson waited in the darkness. His mind 
was so confused, he had no time to reason all 
these things out. It seemed a good scheme 
to him. The hall door banged ; even the 
windows rattled in their sashes. He switched 
on the lights, calling " Help ! Help ! " 

Then he looked about him — peered under 
the table to see that the silver was well hidden 
away, with no likelihood of discovery. 

There was no silver. With the exception 
of the candlesticks it was gone — snuff-boxes, 
spoons, and forks — ail gone ! And his wig ! 




Here we have a system of fortifications. It will 
be seen that there are ten forts, connected by lines of 
outworks, and the numbers represent the strength of the 

small garrisons. 
The general 
wants to dispose 
these garrisons 
afresh so that 
there shall be 
one hundred men 
in every one of 
the five lines of 
four forts. Can 
you show how 
it can be done ? 
The garrisons 
must be moved 
bodily ; that is 
to say, you are 
not allowed to 
break them up into other numbers. It is quite an enter- 
taining little puzzle with counters, and not very difficult. 


Two ueces of iron chain were picked up in the 
battlefield after the fighting on the Marne. What 
purpose they had originally served is not certain and 
does not immediately concern us. They were formed 
of circular links (all of the same size) out of metal half . 
an inch thick. One piece of chain was exactly three 
feet long and the other twenty- two inches in length. 
Now, as one piece contained six links more than the 
other, how many links were there in each piece of 
chain ? 


An Arab came to the river -side 
With a donkey bearing an obelisk, 

But he did not venture to ford the tide, 
For he had too good an *. 

So he camped all night by the river -side, 
Secure till the tide had ceased to swell, 

For he knew that whenever the donkey died, 
No other could be its ||. 

* Find a word for this. 

|| Place a suitable word here. 

228.— CHARADE. 

When yon fine vessel on the ocean speeds, 
Unto my first the watchful tar's attending ; 

And yet my second oft employs his thoughts 
When at my whole his powerful form is bending. 


This new puzzle employs a complete pack of playing- 
cards. We call the knave 11, the queen 12, and the 
ling 13, thus giving every card a numerical value. 
Now, arrange the fifty-two cards on the table so as to 
form two magic squares, all the rows and columns 
and two long diagonals in one case summing to 36 
and in the other case to 37. There are, of course, 
many ways of doing it. Can you find one of them ? 


The poet Longfellow was at one time Professor of 
Modern Languages at Harvard College. At that 
period he was considerably interested in mathematics, 
and used to amuse himself by propounding more or 
less simple arithmetical puzzles to students. The 
following is an example that has been preserved. 
Though it is quite an elementary thing, its source 
gives it interest. The flowers mentioned are certainly 
not very familiar to the British floriculturist. 

If one-fifth of a hive of bees flew to the ladamba 
flower, one-third flew to the slandbara, three times 
the difference of these two numbers flew to an arbour, 
and one bee continued to fly about, attracted on each side 
by the fragrant ketaki and the malati, what was the 
number of bees ? 




This is an interesting little three-mover by the late 
Sam Loyd, and, like so many of the productions of 
that master composer of chess problems, it is 
characterized by pietiy and perhaps unexpected 
strategy | V^^R"^' f?F $ffi(?HV J K N 




Solutions to " Puzzles at a Village Inn/ 

The Louvain House. — The numbers of the houses 
on each side will add up alike if the number of the 
house be i and there are no other houses ; if the 
number be 6, with 8 houses in all ; if 35, with 49 
houses ; if 204, with 288 houses ; if 1,189, with 1,681 
houses ; and so on. But it was known that there 
were more than 50 and fewer than 500 houses, so we 
are limited to a single case, and the number of the 
house must have been 204. 

The Red Cross Puzzle. — The illustration shows 
how to cut the cross into five pieces so as to form two 
similar crosses, each of the same size. One cross is 
cut out whole, and the smaller figure shows how the 

she sets out. Follow every line to its end before chang- 
ing your direction. 

Marching on City. — The following is the best 
solution obtainable, every division marching eighty-two 
miles : — 


































































remaining four, pieces should be put together. The 
pleasant but not very difficult task of finding the 
direction of the cuts is left to the reader. 

Clock Puzzle. — There are five intervals between 
six strokes, the time counting from the first stroke. 
And there are ten intervals between eleven strokes. 
Therefore, if the five intervals amount to six seconds, 
the ten intervals will take twelve seconds — not eleven. 

The Two Turkeys. — The large turkey weighed 
i6lb. and was sold at is. 6Jd. per lb., and the small 
turkey weighed 4lb. and was sold at is. 8Jd. per lb. 

Sinking the Fishing Boats. — The diagram shows 
how the warship sinks all the forty-nine boats in 
twelve straight courses, ending at the point from which 

The Bewitched Watch. — The watch would indicate 
the correct time eleven times in twelve hours. As it 
was correct at 6 o'clock, it would next be correct at 
7t4, then at 8ft, then at 9f\, and so on (that is, every 
hour and one-eleventh), and, since we are ttld that it 
was found correct " less than two hours after " six, 
the time must have been 7^, or 5 minutes 27 r n r seconds 
past 7 o'clock. 

Solutions to other Puzzles in our last number. 


THE answers to the three puzzles published last 
month under the above title arc : — 

1. Eleven grooms and fifteen horses. 

2. By the conditions there were twelve children in 
all and each has now nine ; then each parent had three 
children when married, making six arrivals within ten 

3. The number of shoes equals the number of 

The following is the solution of the end-game 
referred to in the chess story entitled " Allah Knows 
Best," published in our last number • — 

1. Q to R sq., Q to B 7 ; 2. R to Kt 6, ch., K 
to R 4 ; 3. R to R 6, ch., K takes R ; 4. R to Kt 6, 
ch., K to R 4 ; ■ 5. R to R 6, ch., K takes R ; 
6. Q to B 6, ch., Kt takes Q; 7. Kt to Kt 8, ch., 
Kt takes Kt ; 8. P takes Kt (becoming Kt), ch., 
K to R 4 ; 9. Kt to B 6, ch., K to R 3 ; 10. Kt 
takes P, ch., K to R 4 ; 11. Kt to B 6, ch., K to R 3 ; 
12. Kt to Kt 8, ch., K to R 4 ; 13. P to Kt 4, mate. 
No other first move than 1. Q to R sq. will win the 

game for Black, 
on both sides. 

All the moves are the best possible 

The solution of the anagram published last month 

is :— 
1. Marine 


2. Bertha — Breath. 

3. Seaside — Disease. 

4. Resign — Singer. 

5. Dosing — Doings. 

6. Recent — Centre. 

7. Weather — Whereat. 

8. Miles — Smile. 
Direct — Credit. 
Milestone — Limestone. 
Stream — Master. 
Threads — Hardest. 
Descent — Scented. 
Resi c t — Sister. 
Tearing — Granite. 
Below— Elbov Jtion 
Mountaineer — Enumei 
Limped — Dimple. 








19. Models — Seldom. 

20. Talent — Latent. 

21. Coster — Escort. 

22. Hatter — Threat. 

23. Alice — Celia. [tion. 
Introduce — Reduc- 
Night — Thing. 

26. Oriental — Relation. 

27. Rotter — Retort. 
Repents — Present. 
Cautioned — Educa- 
Latter— Rattle, [tion. 
Repartee — Repeater, 
General — Enlarge. 
Dilates — Details. 
Despot — Posted. 
Stinted — Dentist 
Pkase — Elapse. 

3 2 - 





Translated rrom 
the French fcy 





MCE upon a time there 
lived a very powerful king 
who had conquered all the 
other kings and princes in his 
neighbourhood. Each of 
these unfortunate royal persons 
was ordered to send his eldest 
son to the conquerors Court, to be his 
servant for ten years* 

One king there was who had been in his 
youth the bravest of warriors ; but when he 
prew old and his strength began to fail he, 
like the rest, had to submit to and obey his 
strong neighbour, Yet how could he send a 
son to the Court ? He had no son. onlv 

VoL xlU-15- 

three daughters. So the poor man felt very 
uneasy, for he greatly feared that the vic- 
torious king would punish him for his dis- 
obedience by driving him from his throne. 

His three daughters, who loved him dearly, 
noticed his sadness, and asked the reason of 
it. He did not wish to tell them, but they 
gave him no peace until he did so. 

" Father/" then said the eldest girl, (fc let 
me go to the kings Court, as if I were your 
son. I will dress myself as a man, and my 
conduct ^hallrtifl^j^f^i fl^^do you honour." 





" My poor child/' replied the king, " that 
is an impossible plan. You would meet with 
too many difficulties on the road." 

" I promise you, father, that you shall 
have no cause to blush for me. Do let me 
go ! 

And so the king gave in, and let the girl 
have her way. In the highest spirits she 
began the preparations for her journey. She 
danced all over the palace, making a thousand 
plans, selecting splendid garments and a 
richly-caparisoned horse, and providing her- 
self with a large sum of money. Then, after 
receiving her father's blessing, she mounted 
her horse (which, eager as herself, was quiver- 
ing with impatience) and rode out of the 

The king, her father, set out also, but 
secretly. Taking a " short cut," he out- 
stripped the princess, and arrived first at the 
frontier of his kingdom. An old fairy, the 
friend of his parents, had endowed him with 
the power of changing himself at pleasure 
into the form of any animal. He had not 
used this gift for a long time past, but 
the idea now occurred to him that by 
its means he might test the courage of his 

The king took the form of a wolf, and 
crouched under a bridge over which the 
young princess would have to pass. As soon 
as she came in sight the wolf, with flaming 
eyes, bristling hair, and wide-open jaws 
ready to devour his prey, sprang out upon 
her. The girl, horribly frightened, fainted. 
When she recovered her senses the wolf had 
disappeared. But she had lost her nerve. 
She gathered up her broken reins, put spurs 
to her horse, and fled home to her father. 

" Did I not tell you so, little one ? " said 
the king, gently. " Go back to your spinning- 
wheel, and may Heaven protect us ! " 

The next day the second girl came to her 
father, beseeching him to let her go, vowing 
that she would not, like her sister, be put to 
flight by the first obstacle she met. 

The king allowed this daughter also to 
have her way. She, too, set out on horse- 
back in male attire, and everything happened 
as before. She returned at a gallop, frightened 
and trembling, with her hair hanging loose 
about her. 

" Well, my child," said the king, " did I not 
warn you ? Go back to your sister and your 

A few days later, as the king and his 
daughters were sitting at table, Ileane, the 
youngest of the three, said to her father : — 

" I, in my turn, would like to try to help 

Digitized by V_^OOgIe 

you out of your difficulty. Do, please, let 
me go ! " 

" You, my little girl ! " exclaimed the 
king, in surprise. " What folly ! How can 
you hope to succeed when your elder sisters 
have failed ? " 

" For love of you, father dear, I would 
fling myself into the fire ! I have a strong 
wish to attempt this adventure. If Provi- 
dence favours me, all will be well, my courage 
will not fail ; if not, at the worst I shall 
return without dishonour." 

The princess had to plead for a long time 
before she could gain her father's consent. 
But she got it at last, and felt very happy as 
she made ready for her journey. She put 
on a plain suit, then went to the stables to 
choose a horse. After inspecting the proud 
chargers, she bethought herself of an old 
horse which, in her father's more fortunate 
days, had often borne him to victory. For a 
long time she looked about for this animal, 
and discovered him at last lying in a corner 
on some dirty straw. 

" Poor creature ! " said Ileane. " I am 
sorry to find you in such a sad condition." 

" My sweet mistress ! " said the horse. 
" What a noble hero your father was, so long 
as youth and strength were his ! To-day, 
alas ! the snow of age covers his head, and I, 
his old comrade, languish here uncared for, 
awaiting death. Ah ! if only I could have 
proper attention for ten days, I should recover 
my former vigour and be stronger than ten 
thoroughbreds put together ! " 

" What ought to be done for you ? " asked 

" Every day I should be bathed in fresh 
water, and should be fed with a bushel of 
barley boiled in sweet milk." 

" I will see to that," said the princess, 
" and in return you shall teach me how I 
may succeed in my adventure." 

Ileane kept her promise. At the end of 
the tenth day the horse rose from his straw. 
His coat was beautifully glossy, his eyes 
glowed like fire. He seemed stronger and 
more impetuous than a young colt. Ileane 
stared at him in glad surprise. 

" My dear mistress," he said, " may Heaven 
reward you for your kindness to me ! Now 
I am lively and strong, as well as ever I 
was in the old days. Tell me your plans, 
and what you expect of me." 

" I ought," replied Ileane, " to present 
myself at the Court of a powerful king. I 
need a faithful counsellor and guide. Do 
you know of one ? " 

" If you will take me with you," said the 




horse, " you will have nothing to fear. You 
will need no other adviser ; you will have 
only to follow my directions." 

"Very well, then; the matter is settled. 
We shall start in three days' time." 

" It would be wiser to start to-day," said 
the horse. 

The princess ran into the house, dressed 
herself as a man, and then went to find the 

u Good-bye, father ! " she said, embracing 

" Good luck, little one ! " said the king. 

After watching her until she was out of 
sight, he went, by a nearer road, to the bridge, 
where he changed himself into a wolf and 
waited — not for long. 

His daughter arrived almost immediately, 
but on the way her horse had warned her of 
the danger, and had told her what she must 
do. He did not, however, tell her that the 
wolf would be her father, transformed. So 
when the beast leaped upon her, with open 
jaws, Ileane drew her sword and with one 
blow would have cut off its head had it not 
saved itself by springing to one side and then 
running away as fast as it could. 

The princess crossed the bridge, delighted 
with her exploit and feeling prouder than a 
young hero. The king, too, was pleasantly 
surprised to find his youngest daughter so 
brave, but he determined to put her courage 
to another trial. He changed himself into a 
lion and hid behind a second bridge. So 
when the girl came to the place, she found 
waiting for her a fierce, hungry beast, whose 
roaring shook the earth and drew terrifying 
echoes from the mountain. 

As before, the princess had been warned 
by her faithful horse. Brandishing her 
sword, she rushed gallantly towards the lion, 
which turned tail and disappeared. 

Again the king was pleased, yet he resolved 
to test the girl's mettle once more. As 
Usane approached a third bridge there 
pounced upon her a dreadful dragon with an 
immense, horrid, wide-open mouth, from 
which darted long jets of flame and the 
venomous tongue of a serpent. At sight of 
this monster, the poor princess, although 
forewarned by the horse, trembled all over. 
Her hair stood on end, her courage almost 
failed her." Then the horse neighed loudly 
to remind her of her brave resolutions. He 
planted her right in front of the dragon. 
Ileane, overcoming her fear, drew her sword 
and engaged with her enemy in a desperate 
combat which lasted over an hour. At last 
she struck such a violent blow upon the 


monster's head that he fell, vanquished, at her 
feet. He pressed his forehead three times on 
the ground, then rose; and Ileane, to her 
utter bewilderment, saw her own father 
standing before her ! 

" I see. my dear daughter," he said, " that 
you have a noble and valiant heart. You 
did wisely in choosing this horse ; without 
his help you would have been by now at 
home again with your sisters. Now I can, 
without fear, allow you to proceed, for I know 
that you will prosper. Follow always the 
advice of your good horse. His name is 
' Shining Sun/ He is my old comrade, and 
will serve you faithfully/' 

The princess took a second affectionate 
farewell of her father, and after a few days 
arrived without further hindrance at the 
Court. The king was exceedingly delighted 
to receive into his service such a graceful and 
accomplished youth. He took to him at 
once, and desired to have Ileane always with 
him. The young princes in the king's service 
felt very jealous of this new-comer who had 
so quickly won the favour of their master. 
They consulted together and formed a plan 
by which they hoped to get rid of him. 

Their new companion, they told the king, 
had boasted to them that he knew where the 
Princess Helen (his future wife) was. 

When the king heard this he flew into a 
violent passion with Ileane. 

" Wretched boy ! " he exclaimed. " You 
cannot be ignorant of my love for Princess 
Helen. Everyone knows how distressed I 
am by her sudden disappearance. And you, 
to whom I have shown such kindness, know 
where she is. and have not told me ! Go at 
once and bring her to me ! If you return 
without her I will cut off your head ! " 

Ileane would have defended herself, but 
the king refused to hear a word. Sadly she 
left him, and went to her friend, Shining 

" Do not fret/' said the horse, when he had 
heard her story ; ik all will be well. / know 
where this princess is. The King of the Sea, 
who is in love with her. carried her off one 
evening when she was strolling with her com- 
panions along the shore. Ask your king to 
lend you his most beautiful ship, and tell him 
that in a few days' time you will bring him 
the woman he loves/' 

Ileane attired herself in a princely dress of 
white cloth embroidered with gold and pearls, 
and put on boots of soft leather inlaid with 
precious stones. She then presented herself 
before the king, who now listened to what she 
had to saw KigjH^efi brightened when he 




heard his favourite promising to bring back 
Princess Helen. He gave orders for the 
magnificent decoration of his hest ship. 
I lean e and her horse went on board. 

Favourable winds carried them towards 
the shore whereon stood the sea-king f s palace* 
Ileane landed, and paced to and fro on the 
beach. Presently she met three beautiful 
slaves, earning some linen. These were the 
maids of Princess He ten. Great was their 
admiration of this resplendent young gentle- 
man, with his costly dress and jewelled boots, 
They ran to tell their mistress what they had 

seen , and begged her to go on board the 
stranger's ship to look at the grand things 
which he doubtless had there. 

The lady j who from her balcony had already 
seen the handsome youth, readily yielded to 
the wish of her servants, She came down to 
the beach 3 where Ileane was still marching 
backwards and forwards. He (or, rather, 
she), in a gentle, coaxing voice, besought the 
princess to visit the vessel and choose gifts 
for herself from the jewels and precious stuffs 
which it contained, Helen accepted the 


"Gftftjmal from 


by L* GO QIC 



a 1 7 


While she was examining I he ship's trea- 
sures lleane gave the order to sail quickly 
towards the country of the king, his master. 
When, after some hours had passed, Princess 
Helen was about to take leave of her host* 
how great was her surprise to find herself in 
the midst of the ocean, miles away from the 
sea-king's home ! She reproached her host 
for having deceived her t pretending to 
be very angry with him, At the bottom 
of her heart, however, she was glad to 
escape from the King of the Sea, whom 
she did not love, and who would have forced 
her to marry him. She admired the beauty 
and boldness of her new captor ; she had, 
in fact, loved him at first sight, and longed 
that he would love her in return. She 
was bitterly disappointed when, at the 

Digitized by V^OOylC 

end of their voyage* lleane conducted her 
to the king, 

;i Sire." he said, "I bring you her whom 
you love ; receive her from the hands of your 

The king, overcome with joy. took Helen's 
hand and. with great pomp, led her to the 
room which he had caused to be prepared for 

But Princess Helen was sad at heart. 
u How unlucky I am ! " she said to herself, 
u Why do I always fall into the power of one 
whom 1 cannot love ? ?1 Her thoughts were 
all of the young hero who had rescued her 
from the sea- king ; she had, of course, no idea 
that the object of her affection was not a 
prince but a princess. 

The day after her arrival the king asked 
her whether she would consent to be his wife. 

'■ I wilt do so on one condition.' " replied 
Helen. *' 1 'ffeprg i Wa ^ ftf l"fth e River Jordan a 


d I 



church which contains a little marble shrine. 
Get this shrine for me, and I will be vour 

She thought that it would be impossible 
for the king to fulfil this condition. But he 
sent at once for Ileane, Having told her of 
Princess Helen's wish to possess the shrine, 
the king commanded her to get it without 

Ileane went straight to Shining Sun and 
i asked him what she was to do now. 

11 It is a difficult errand/ 1 said the horse, 
u Bad luck to the man who sends you on it ! 
But fear nothing ; I will pull you through. 
The casket is on a table in the centre of the 
church. It is guarded by nuns, who take it 
in turn to watch all night. Now and then a 
priest comes in to instruct them, and while 
they are listening to his discourse only one 
nun is left in charge of the sacred treasure. 
That will he the mo&t favourable moment for 
your purpose." 

Ileane took leave of the king and. mounted 
on Shining Sun, started on her journey. 

After travelling for a very long time they 
reached the banks of the Jordan and found 
themselves in front of the church. Luckily 
for them, the priest was there, preaching ? and 
all the nuns were listening to him except the 
one in charge of the precious casket, and she, 
after watching for some hours, felt very 
weary. She sat dow T n on a chair to rest, and 
immediately dropped off to sleep. Then 
Ileane, seizing her opportunity, stoic on tip- 
toe into the churchy took the shrine t and rode 
away with her booty, 1 

When the nun woke up and missed the 
treasure she raised such an outcry that her 
companions came running to sec what was 
the matter ; and when she told them what 
had happened, groans and cries of lamenta- 
tion were heard in every part of the church. 
The priest prayed that the thief might be 

punished. li If the evil-doer be a man," said 
the priest/' may he be turned into awoman; 
if a woman, may she become a man." 

This curious prayer was instantly answered. 
Princess Ileane was changed into an elegant 
young gentleman of martial appearance, 
whose handsome face was adorned with a fine 
moustache. Upon his return to the king's 
Court everyone noticed his changed looks, 
although none, w r e may be sure, guessed the 
reason of the change. He gave the shrine 
to the king, saying, as he did so : — 

" Sire, I have now done you sufficient 
service, and have earned some repose. May 
your Majesty be happy I " 

The king smiled. " I am very much 
obliged to you " he said, " Should I 
have no son, you shall succeed me on 
the throne/' 

Princess Helen, however, finding that,, con- 
trary to her expectation, the kin^ was uhle 
to fulfil the condition on which she had 
promised to mam- him T resolved to rid herself 
at any price of the lover whom she hated. 
She could not forgive him for exposing the 
young prince — who every day gained a 
stronger hold upon her affections — to so many 
dangers, On the day before that fixed for 
the wedding the king ordered that a warm 
bath should be prepared for him. Princess 
Helen, having taken this duty upon herself, 
made up such a fierce furnace under the hath 
that as soon as he got in the water began to 
boil t and before he could call for assistance 
he was scalded to death. 

Thus he perished miserably, and nobody 
was sorry* for he had oppressed the weak and 
offended the strong, 

Ileane, whom the king had named as his 
successor j ascended the throne. He married 
Princess Helen, and, beloved by his wife, his 
numerous children, and all his subjects, was 
perfectly happy until the end of his life. 

by Google 

Original from 


By W. H. WATTS. 

THE similarity between chess and the great art of 
war has been remarked upon innumerable 
occasions. So great is this similarity that a variant 
on chess has been invented in recent years which goes 
by the name of " Kriegspiel," or " War Game," to give 
its nearest English equivalent. This is the game at 
which German officers are so expert, and which, 
according to newspaper reports, they play during their 
brief spells of rest in the present campaign. 

But the likeness of chess to war is as marked as 
that of Kriegspiel, and the extremely lively and 
entertaining game which follows has been dissected 
and annotated in a manner which illustrates the 
similarity. It was played thirty years ago between 
two very famous English chess-players The Rev* 
G. A. MacDonnell played the White pieces and H. E. 
Bird, the Black* We think all who have the remotest 
knowledge of chess will willingly admit its remarkable 
likeness to the present great war. 

It is understood for the convenience of the compari- 
son that the White pieces are the German forces and 
the Black are the Allies — Belgians, French, and 


i. P to K 4 P to K 4 

Mobilization having been generally ordered by the 
various nations interested, all available troops are 
immediately sent to the frontiers involved. 

2. P to K B 4 P takes P 

" Frontier incidents " naturally follow at once, 
owing to the close contact of the opposing forces and 
their generally excited state. 

3. Kt, to K B 3 P to K Kt 4 

4. P to K R 4 P to Kt 5 

5. Kt to K 5 

The Germans attacking in superior force occupy 

5 P to K R 4 

6. B to B 4 Kt to K R 3 

The timely arrival of the First British Expeditionary 
Force counterbalances the German reinforcements 
being rushed to the front. 

7. P to Q 4 P to Q 3 

8. Kt to Q 3 

German advance temporarily checked and outposts 
driven in. . 

8 P to B 6 

The Allies' left wing commences a harassing attack 
on the German lines of communication. 

9. P to K Kt 3 P to K B 4 

10. Kt to Q B 3 P takes P 

11. Kt takes P Kt to B 4 

The Allies, less prepared for the war than the 
Germans, are not yet able to meet the enemy in equal 
force, but their efficient generalship prevents the 
Germans from striking a crushing blow, the enveloping 
movement of the German right being frustrated. 

12. K to B 2 B to K 2 

13. Kt to B 4 R to R 2 

Paris takes no risk and prepares for defence. 

14. Kt to Kt 6 

The rapid advance of the German right towards Paris. 

14 ... . P to Q 4 

The Allies attempt a diversion by an attack in the 
centre towards Verdun. 

15. Kt takes B p takes Kt 

16. Kt to Q 5 B to K 3 

Von Kluck's sudden change of front induces a strong 
counter-attack by the Allies, for which reinforcements 
are rapidly brought forward. 

17. B to K Kt s 

by Google 

The Allies having evacuated Antwerp, it is captured 
by the Germans. The Allies have a definite plan, the 
nature of which is quite unsuspected by the Germans, 
who lose valuable time in this useless capture. Mean- 
time, in other parts pi the battle front, they suffer 
serious reverses. 

17 B takes Kt 

18. B takes Q P to K 6, ch. 

19. K to Kt sq. B takes B 

20. B to Kt 5 

The fight proceeds with some heavy exchanges, and 
the Germans have to bring to the front the troops 
which had been holding Antwerp and other occupied 
Belgian towns. 

20 P to B 7, ch. 

21. K to R 2 P to K 7 

The German right wing is now entirely surrounded, 
and to save its entire loss heavy reinforcements are 
requisitioned from the Eastern 4i theatre of war," but 
despite this the blow is one from which recovery is 

22. Q to Q 2 P to B 8 = Kt, ch. 
What appeared to be an unimportant body of 

infantry was in reality masking a strong detachment 
of cavalry which soon decides the issue The Allies' 
plan develops, 

23. K R takes Kt P takes R = Kt, ch. 

24. R takes Kt B takes R 

and successfully matures, huge masses of prisoners 
being taken, the Allies' losses being insignificant. 

25. Q to K sq., ch. Kt to K 2 

26. Q takes B Q Kt to B 3 

The arrival of further Colonial forces, vih Marseilles, 
enables the Allies to quickly conclude the struggle. 

27. P to Q 5 

The enfeebled German attack continues to the last 
27 R to B 2 

28. Q to Q B 4 Kt to K 4 

29. Q takes B P Kt to B 6, ch. 

30. K to Kt 2 

The German retreat commences, the Allies keeping 
up a relentless attack to the finish. 

30 R to Q B sq. 

31. Q to R 5 R takes P, ch. 
Capture of another German colony. 

7,2. K to B sq. Kt takes B. ch. 

44 Rounding up the Uhlans " and clearing Belgian 
territory of Germans. 

^ K to K sq. Kt to B 6, ch. 

34. K to Q sq. R to Q 7, ch. 
Invasion of German territory commences. 

35. K to B sq. 

The hasty retreat of the remaining German forces 
with the Kaiser at their head develops into a complete 
rout. They are harried the whole way by strong 
detachments of the Allies* forces. 

35 Kt takes Q P 

Prisoners captured in front of Berlin. 

36. P to R 3 

Hurried entrenchments at Pot * lam. 

tf> R to B 2, ch. 

Berlin invested. 

37. K to Kt sq. Kt to B 6, ch. 
Storming the fortifications and successfully making 

a breach in the defences. 

38. P take> Kt R to K 2 

39. Capitulation of Berlin and capture of the 
Kaiser with the whole of the German Military Head- 

^ uar,er ^ ,:,f briginalfrorn 


[ We snail be glad io receive Contributions to this section, and to pay for such as ate accepted*] 


THERE is to be seen at Palmer 
Park, Detroit, Michigan, an 
enormous log, the inside of which is 
hollowed out and contains a chair and 
table, which were themselves carved 
from the log. It is large enough for 
a man to walk through, and the cage 
end of it v.** at one time used as a 
menagerie and contained a lion and 
tiger. One end of the Log measures 
eight feet six inches, the other end 
eight feet three inches, while the length 
is thirty-five feet- — Mr. VV. S, Turner, 
3,006, Laud> Street, Pittsburgh, 
Pennsylvania^ U^SJL 


A NOVEL motor -driven racer [g the invention 
of a St- Louis genius, who lias given the name 



of the "unicycle" to the great hoop. Though a couple 
of small wheels, or rollers, are attached to the side of 
the queer craft, they merely serve to 
steady it when it is still, and are 
raised when the device is in motion. 
The motive-power is a gas-engine 
of the rotary type, with three 
cylinders, and this <3 rives a propeller, 
five feet in lengthy at such speed that 
the wheel travels at a better rate 
than a mile a minute — seventy-four 
miles an hour, to be exact. The frame 
which carries the engine, propeller, 
driver, and fuel supply is very in- 
geniously constructed with a set of 
rollers that revolve against the inner 
side of the big wheel. In this 
manner the frame remains upright 
while the wheel revolves, The 
latter is of aluminium and has 
a diameter of eighty ■ one inches* 
Its circumference is protected by 
ft solid rubber tyre. — Mr* C. L- 

Edholm, 1,353* West 36th Place, Los Angeles, 
Calif orniaj U.S.A. __ 

EX BASSLER, a youngster of six, 
living at Darien, Wisconsin, L'.S.A., 
has probably the strangest driving team 
in the world — a team of eight snapping 
turtles, from fifty to seventy -five years 
old, weighing about thirty pounds each. 
Rex has tamed these creatures, which 
naturally are savage, and they draw him 
in his express wagon like ponies driven by 
other children, although they are not likely 
to shatter any speed records* The 
youngster learned that turtles could be 
lamed while watching his father catching 
turtles for the New York and Philadelphia 
markets* Persuading his father to give 
him some of the largest, he Anally grouped 
them for a driving team, and they seem 
to enjoy the sport as much as Rex likes 
to ride behind them. These turtles are so 
old that their backs are covered with moss. 
The team is kept in line by means of a 
wire harness, which is run through holes 
drilled in the edges of the thick shells, 

—Mr. Robert H. Moult on, Room L, Board of Trade, 

Chicago, Illinois, U.S. A* 


Original from . 



(£« page 123.) 

by Google 

Original from 


FEBRUARY, [915. 
Vol. xltx. No. 290, 





Illustrated ty E* S* Hodgson, 

THIS is the story which won the first prize of Five Hundred Pounds offered 
by " Collier's/' the popular American weekly newspaper. The chief 
judge of this contest was no less a person than ex- President Theodore 
Roosevelt. He declared that:— 

"The Trawler 1 * is far and away the best story. It Is literature. 
In thought, In elevation of sentiment. In rugged knowledge of 
rugged men. in strength and finish of writing, it is entitled to a 
place of permanence. To my mind this story is beyond all 
question entitled to the first prize, 

Honours are not unknown to James Brendan Connolly, the Author of " The 
Trawler." Eighteen years ago he was, perhaps, the most renowned athlete in 
the world, having just earned the first Olympic Championship of modern times 
at Athens, A decade of strenuous physical life prepared him for that triumph, 
notably eight years of service in both the Army and Navy of the United States. 
At the close of the Spanish War he began seriously to write— chiefly about the 
people he knows best, the fisher-folk whose market is South Boston, where Mr, 
Connolly was born F whose lives and fortunes are unending drama. 


John Snow ? s home in Gloucester 

came the tale this night of how 

Arthur Snow was washed from the 

deck of Hugh Glynn's vessel and lost 

at sea., and it was Saul Haverick, his sea- 

dothes still nn him, who brought the word. 

Digitized by LiOOQ IC 

M I'm telling you ? John Snow/ 1 said Saul, 
and he out of breath almost with the telling, 
" And others than me will by an' by be 
telling you what a black night it was, with 
a high-running sea and wind to blow the last 
coat o* paint off the vessel, but o* course he 




had to be the first o' the fleet — nothing less 
would do him — to make the market with his 
big ketch. It was for others, not for him to 
show the way to take in sail, he said, and not 
a full hour before it happened that was." 

Such was Saul Haverick's ending. 

John Snow said nothing, Mrs. Snow said 
nothing. Saul looked to me, but I gave no 
sign that I had heard him. Only Mary Snow, 
looking up from her hands folded in her lap, 
said, " Surely you must find it painful, Saul 
Haverick, to ship with such a wicked man 
and take the big shares of money that fall 
to his crew ? " 

" Eh ? " said Saul, frightened-like at her. 
" I'm not denying that he is a great fish killer, 
Mary Snow, and that we haven't shared some 
big trips with him, but it is like his religion, 
I'm telling you, to be able to say how he 
allowed no man ever he crossed tacks with 
to work to wind'ard of him. He's that vain 
that he'd drive vessel, himself, and all hands 
to the bottom afore he'd let some folks think 
anything else of him." 

" He lost my boy — we'll say no more of 
him," said John Snow. 

" Aye," said Saul Haverick, " we'll speak 
no more of him. But I was Arthur's dory- 
mate, John Snow, as you well know, and my 
heart is sick to think of it. I'lJ be going now." 

And he did go, without sound, and by 
way of the back door. 

And he no more than gone when a knock 
came to the front door. After a time, the 
clock on the mantel ticking loud among us, 
John Snow called out, " Come in ! " 

I remember how Hugh Glynn stepped within 
the door of John Snow's kitchen that night, 
and how he bent his head to step within ; 
and, bending his head, took off his cap, and 
how he bowed to John Snow, Mrs. Snow, and 
Mary Snow in turn, and, facing John Snow, 
made as if to speak ; but how his voice would 
not come, not until he had lifted his head 
yet higher and cleared his throat. And, 
beginning again, he took a step nearer the 
middle of the floor to where the light of the 
bracket-lamp above the kitchen-table shone 
full on his face. He was a grand man to 
look at — not only his face, but the height 
and build of him, and he was fresh in from 

" John Snow — and you, Mrs. Snow — the 
Arbiter's to anchor in the stream and her 
flag's to half-mast. And knowing that, may- 
be there's no need to say anything more ? " 

Mrs. Snow said nothing, Mary Snow said 
nothing ; but I remember how, from under 
her father's brows, the deep eyes glowed out. 

by Vj 

eyes giov 

" Go on," said John Snow, at last 

Hugh Glynn went on. 

" Well, he was a good boy, your Arthur. 
Maybe you'd like to be told that, even by me, 
though, of course, you that was his father, 
John Snow, and you that was his mother, 
Mrs. Snow, know better than anybody else 
what he was. Three nights ago it was, and 
we to the south'ard of Sable Island in as nasty 
a breeze as I'd been in for some time. A living 
gale it was, a November no' waster — you know 
what that is, John Snow — but I'd all night 
been telling the gang to be careful, for a sea 
there was to sweep to eternity whoever it 
could' ve caught loose around deck. I could' ve 
hove her to and let her lay, but I was never 
one to heave-to my vessel — not once I'd 
swung her off for home. And there, God help 
me, is maybe my weakness. 

" She was under her gaff tops'l, but 1 see 
she couldn't stand it. ' Boys,' says I, * clew 
up that tops'l.' Which they did and put it 
in gaskets, and your Arthur, I mind, was 
one of the four men to go aloft to clew it up. 
Never a lad to shirk was Arthur. Well, a 
stouter craft of her tonnage than the Arbiter 
maybe never lived, nor no gear any sounder ; 
but there are things o' God's that the things 
o' man were never meant to hold out against. 
Her jib flew to ribbons. ' Cut it clear ! ' I 
says, and half the crew jumped for'ard. 
Half-a-dozen of the crew to once, but Arthur — 
your Arthur, your boy, Mrs. Snow, your son, 
John Snow — he was quick enough to be among 
the half-dozen. Among a smart crew he was 
never left behind. It looked safe for us all 
then, coming on to morning, but who can ever 
tell ? Fishermen's lives, they're expected to 
go fast, but they're men's lives for all that, 
and ' Have a care ! ' I called to them, 
myself to the wheel at the time, where, God 
knows, I was careful. I saw this big fellow 
coming, a mountain of water, with a snow- 
white top to it, against the first light o' the 
morning. And I made to meet it. A better 
vessel than the Arbiter the hand o' man never 
turned out — all Gloucester knows that — but 
her best and my best there was no lifting 
her out of it. Like great pipe organs a-roaring, 
this sea came, and over we went. Over we 
went, and I heard myself saying, ' God in 
heaven ! but you great old wagon, are you 
gone at last ? ' And said it again when maybe 
, there was ten feet of water over my head. 
Her quarter was buried that deep and she 
that long coming up. Slow coming up she 
was, but up she came at last. But a man was 
He had stopped, but he went on. 




"It was 
Arthur, John 
Snow, and you, 
Mrs. Snow, who 
was gone. The 
boy you were 
expecting to 
see in this very 
room by now, 
he was gone. 
Little Arthur 
that ten years 
ago, when first 
I saw him, I 
could' ve swung 
with my finger 
? most« Little 
Arthur was 
gone. Well, 
1 Over with a 
dory t ' I said, 
And gale and 
all we over with 
a dory, with 
three of us in 
it. We looked 
and looked in 
that terrible 
dawn t but no 
use; no man, 
short o' the Son 
o^ God Him- 
self, could 'a' 
stayed afloat, 
oilskins and 
red jacks, in 
that sea. But 
we had to look, 
and coming 
a boards the 
dory was stove 
in— s mashed 
like 'twas a 
china teacup 

and not a new MA ry snow* 

banker's double 

dory, against the raiL And it was cold. Our 
frost - bitten fingers slipped from her ke- 
wrapped rail, and the three of us nigh came to 
joining Arthur, and Lord knows — a sin may be 
ymTli say to think it, John Snow — but I felt 
then as if I'd just as soon., for it's a hard thing 
to see a man go down to his death, maybe 
through my foolishness , and to have the people 
that love him to face in the telling of it — 
that's hard, too-" 

He drew a great breath. 

* s And "■ — again a deep breath and a 
deepened note of pain—" that's what I've 


come to tell 
you, John 
Snow, and you, 
Mrs. Snow, 
how your boy 
Arthur was 

John Snow T j 
at the kitchen- 
table f remem- 
ber, one finger 
still in the 
pages of the 
black - lettered 
Bible he had 
been reading 
when Hugh 
Glynn stepped 
in, dropped his 
head on his 
chest and there 
let it rest. Mrs, 
Snow was cry- 
ing out loud. 
Man- Snow said 
nothing nor 
made a move 
except to sit 
in htr chair by 
the window and 
look to where 
in the middle 
of the kitchen 
Hugh Glynn 

There was a 
long quiet. 
Hugh Glynn 
spoke again. 

u T w e n t y 

years, John 

Snow , and you, 

Mrs. Snow — 

twenty good 

years I've 


o' Gloucester; and in that time not much 

this side the Western Ocean I haven't laid 

a vessel's keel oven From Greenland to 

Hatteras I've fished, and many smart seamen 

I've been shipmates with — dory, bunk, and 

watch mates in days gone by — and many a 

grand one of 'em I've known to find his grave 

under the- green- white ocean ; but never a 

smarter, never an abler, fisherman than your 

boy Arthur, Boy and man I knew him, and 

boy and man he did his work. I thought 

you might like to hear that from me, John 

Snow. And not much more than that can 







I say now, except to add maybe that when 
the Lord calls, John Snow, we must go, all of 
us. The Lord called and Arthur went. He 
had a good life before him — if he'd lived. 
He'd've had his own vessel soon — could' ve 
had one before — last summer if he wanted. 
But, * No/ he says j £ I'll stay with you yet 
a while. Captain Hugh. ? He loved me and 
I loved him. ( I'D stay with you yet a while, 
Captain Hugh/ he says, but staying with me 
he was lost, and if I was old enough to have 
a grown son o' my own, if it was that little 
lad that lived only long enough to teach me 
what it is to have hope of a fine son, and then to 
lose him — if 'twas that little lad o' mine grown 

up , I rould hardly feel it more, John Sn 


John Snow let 
slip his book and 
stood up, and lor 
the first time 
looked fair at 
Hugh Glvnn. 

"We know, 
Captain Glynn/* 
John Snow said, 
" and I'm thank- 
ing you now. It's 
hard on me, hard 
on us all — our only 
son, Captain— our 
only boy. But, 
doubtless, it had 
to come. Some 
goes young and 
some goes old- It 
came to him maybe 
earlier than we 
ever thought for 
or he thought for 
no doubt, but — it 
came. And what 
you have told us, 
Captain, is some- 
thing for a man 
to be hearing of his 
son — and to he 
hearing it from 
you* And only this 
very night, with 
the word of you 
come home, my 
mind was harden- 
ing against you, 
Captain Glynn; 
for, no denying, 
I've heard hard 
things, even as Fve 
heard great things, 
of you, But now 
I've niet you I know they mixed lies in 
the telling, Captain Glynn. And as for 

Arthur " 

John Snow stopped. 

11 As for Arthur " — 'twas something to 
listen to the voice of Hugh Glynn then, so 
soft there was almost no believing it, '* As 
for Arthur, John Snow, he went as all of us 
will have to go if we stop long enough with 
the fishing.' 5 

11 Aye, no doubt. As you may go yourself, 

u As I expect to go, John Snow. To be 
lost at the last— what else should 1 look for- 
ward to ? M 

"A bkckiodelUfipntaptain.^ 





" Maybe, maybe. And yet a man's death 
at the last." 
" So 'tis, Captain, so 'tis." 
John Snow and Hugh Glynn gripped hands, 
looked into each other's eyes, and parted, 
Hugh Glynn out into the night again, and 
John Snow, with Mrs. Snow, to their room, 
from where I could hear her sobbing. I almost 
wanted to cry myself, but Mary Snow was 
there. I went over and stood behind her. 
She was looking after someone through the 

It was Hugh Glynn, walking down the 
steep hill. Turning the corner below, I 
remember how he looked back and up at the 
window. For a long silence Mary Snow sat 
there and looked out. When she looked up 
and noticed me she said, " It's a hard life, 
the bank fishing, Simon. The long, long 
nights out to sea, the great gales, and when 
you come home no face, it may be, at the door 
to greet you." 

" That it is, Mary." 

" I saw his wife one day, Simon," said 
Mary Snow, softly, " and the little boy with 
her. But a week before they were killed 
together that was. Six years ago, and he 
the great tall man striding between them. 
A wonderful, lovely woman, and a noble 
couple, I thought. And the grand boy ! 
And I at that heedless age, Simon, it was 
a rare person, be it man or woman, I ran 
ahead to see again." 

" Come from the window, Mary," I said 
to that, " and we'll talk of things more 

11 No, no, Simon, don't ask me to talk of 
light matters to-night." 

With that and a " Good night," she left 
me for her room. 

Out into the street I went. John Snow's 
house stood at the head of a street atop of 
a steep hill, and I remember how I stood on 
the steps and looked down the slope of the 
hill and below the hill to the harbour, and 
beyond the harbour to clear water. It was 
a cold winter moonlight, and under the moon 
the sea heaved and heaved and heaved. 
There was no break in the surface of that 
sea that night, but as it heaved, terribly slow 
and heavy, I thought I could feel the steps 
beneath me heaving with it. 

There is no striving against the strength 
of the sea, and the strength of Hugh Glynn 
was the strength of the sea. 

All that night I walked the streets and 
roads of Cape Ann, walking where my eyes 
would lose no sight of that sea to which I had 
been born, and thinking, thinking, thinking 


always to the sarge and roar of it, and in the 
morning I went down to where Hugh Glynn's 
vessel lay in dock, and Hugh Glynn himself 
I found standing on the stringpiece, holding 
by the hand and feeding candy to the little 
son of one of his crew, the while half-a-dozen 
men were asking him, one after the other, 
for what I, too, had come to ask. 

My turn came. 

" I never met you to speak to before, 
Captain Glynn," I began, " but I was a friend 
of Arthur Snow's, and I was hopeful for the 
chance to ship with you in Arthur's place. 
My name is Simon Kippen," I went on, when 
he made no answer. " I was in John Snow's 
kitchen when you came in last night." 

" I know " — he waved the hand that wasn't 
holding the little boy — " I know. And " — 
he almost smiled — " you're not afraid to come 
to sea with me ? " 

" Why more afraid," I said, " than you 
to take me with you ? " 

He had a way of throwing his head back 
and letting his eyes look out, as from a dis- 
tance, when he wanted to get the measure 
of a man. 'Twas so he looked out at me now. 

" You were a great friend of Arthur's ? " 
he said. 

" A friend to Arthur — and more if I could," 
I answered. 

He looked out at me once more from the 
eyes far back in his head, and from me he 
looked to the flag that was still to the half- 
mast of his vessel for the loss of Arthur Snow. 

" He's a hard case of a man, shouldn't 
you say, Simon Kippen, who would play 
a shipmate foul ? " 

I said nothing to that. 

" And, master or hand, we're surely all 
shipmates," he added, to which again I said 

" Will you take Saul Haverick for dory- 
mate ? " he said again. 

" I bear Saul Haverick no great love," 
I said ; " but I have never heard he wasn't 
a good fisherman, and who should ask more 
than that of his mate in a dory ? " 

" We might ask something more in a dory- 
mate at times, but he is a good fisherman," 
he answered. " A good hand to the wheel 
of a vessel, too, a cool head in danger, and 
one of the best judges of weather ever I sailed 
with. We're sailing in the morning. You 
can have the chance." 

As to what was in my heart when 1 chose 
to ship with Hugh Glynn I cannot say. 
There are those who explain how they can 
interpret every heartbeat, quick or slow, when 
aught ails then^.j q j}-|Q$ f Pf> Pfluld. I only know 




that, standing on the steps of Mary Snow's 
house the night before, all my thought was 
of Mary Snow sitting at the window and 
looking down the street after Hugh Glynn. 
And " God help you, Simon Kippen ! " I found 
myself saying. " It's not you, nor Saul 
Haverick, nor any other living man will marry 
Mary Snow while Hugh Glynn lives." But 
of what lay beyond that in my heart I could 
not say. 

And now I was to sea with Hugh Glynn, 
and we not four days out of Gloucester when 
as if but to show me the manner of man he was, 
he runs clear to the head of Placentia Bay, in 
Newfoundland, for a baiting on our way to 
the Banks. And whoever knows Placentia 
Bay knows what that means, with the steam- 
cutters of the Crown patrolling and their 
sleepless watches aloft night and day to trap 
whoever would try to buy a baiting there 
against the law. 

No harm fell to Hugh Glynn that time. 
No harm ever fell to him, fishermen said. 
Before ever the cutters could get sight of him 
he had sight of them, and his bait stowed 
below, safe away he came, driving wildlike 
past the islands of the bay, with never a side- 
light showing in the night, and not the first 
time he had done so. 

" What dy say to that, Simon ? Didn't 
we fool 'em good ? " he asked, when once more 
we were laying a free course for the Western 

"I'm grateful you did not ask me to go 
in any dory to bring the bait off," I answered. 

" Why is that, Simon ? " he asked, as one 
who has no suspicion. 

" It was against the law, Captain Glynn." 

" But a bad law, Simon." 

" Law is law," I answered to that. 

He walked from the wheel where I was 
twice to the break of the vessel and back 
again, and said in a voice no louder than was 
needful to be heard above what loose water 
was splashing over her quarter to my feet, 
" Don't be put out with me for what I'll 
tell you now, Simon. You're a good lad, 
Simon, and come of good people, but of people 
that for hundreds o' years have thought but 
one way in the great matters of life. And 
when men have lived with their minds set 
in the one way so long, Simon, it comes hard 
for them to understand any other way. 
Such unfrequent ones as differed from your 
people, Simon, them they cast out from among 
them. I know, I know, Simon, because I 
come from people something like to them, only 
I escaped before it was too late to understand 
that people who split tacks with you in a 

matter of sailing do not always fetch up on 
a lee shore," 

" And from those other people, no doubt, 
Captain Glynn, you learned it was right to 
break a country's laws ? " 

" It wasn't breaking our country's law, 
Simon, nor any good man's law, to get a bait- 
ing last night. There are a lot of poor fisher- 
men, Simon — as none know better than your- 
self — in Placentia Bay who have bait to sell, 
and there is a law which says they must not. 
But whose law ? An American law ? No. 
God's law ? .No. The law of those poor people 
in Placentia Bay ? No. Some traders who 
have the making of the laws ? Yes. And 
there you have it. If the Placentia Bay 
fishermen aren't allowed to sell bait to me. 
or the like of me, they will have to sell it 
to the traders themselves, but have to take 
their one dollar where we of Gloucester would 
pay them five, and, paying it, would give 
some of them and their families a chance to 

He stood there in his rubber boots to his 
hips and his long greatcoat to his ankles — he 
was one who never wore oilskins aboard ship — 
swinging with the swing of the plunging vessel 
as if he was built into her, and with his head 
thrown back and a smile that, it may be, 
was not a smile at all, and kept looking at me 
from out of eyes that were changeable as 
the sea itself. 

" Don't you be getting mad with me, 
Simon, because we don't think alike in some 
things. To the devil with what people think 
of you. I've said that often enough, Simon, 
but not when they're good people. If some 
people don't like us, Simon, there will come 
no nourishment to our souls. Some day you're 
going to come to my way o' thinking, Simon, 
because we two are alike underneath." 

" Alike ! " I smiled to myself. 

" Aye, alike at heart, Simon. We may look 
to be sailing wide-apart courses now, but 
maybe, if our papers were examined, 'twould 
be found we'd cleared for the same last port 
of call, Simon." 

And no more talk of anything like that 
between us until the night before we were to 
leave the fishing grounds for home. In the 
afternoon we had set our trawls, and, leaving 
the vessel, the skipper had said, " Our last 
set, boys. Let 'em lay to-night and in the 
morning we'll haul." And returning aboard 
after setting, we had our supper, and were 
making ready, such as had no watch to stand, 
to turn in for a good long sleep against the 
labour of the morrow. 

It was an oily sea that evening, a black, 




oily smooth surface, lifting heavy and slow 
to a long swell. A smooth, oily sea — there 
is never any good comes out of it, but a beau- 
tiful sea notwithstanding, with more curious 
patterns of shifting colours than a man could 
count in a year playing atop of it. The 
colours coming and going and rolling and 
squirming — no women's shop ashore ever held 
such colours under the bright night lights 
as under the low sun we saw this day on the 
Western Banks. It was a most beautiful and 
a most wicked sea to stop and look at. And 
the sun went down that evening on a banking 
of clouds no less beautiful. It was a copper- 
red sun, and after 'twas gone, above the 
horizon, in all the western quarter, were piled 
the clouds in lovely massy forms and splendid 

Such of the crew as stopped to speak of it 
did not like the look of it, and some stopped 
beside the skipper to say it, he leaning against 
the main rigging in the way he had, the while 
he studied the weather signs ; but he made no 
answer to the crew to that or any other word 
they had this evening — only to Saul Haverick 
when he came up from supper complaining 
of not feeling well. 

He was one could drive his crew till they 
couJd not see for very weariness, but he was 
one could nurse them, too. 

" Go below and turn in," was his word to 
Saul, " and stay there till you feel better. 
Call me, Simon, if I'm not up," he then said 
to me. " I'll stand Saul's watch with you if 
Saul is no better." 

It was yet black night when I was called to 
go on watch, and Saul Haverick still com- 
plaining, I went to call the skipper. But he 
was already up, and had been, the watch 
before me said, for the better part of the night. 

I found him leaning over the gunnel of the 
wind'ard nest of dories when I went on deck, 
gazing out on a sea that was no longer oily 
smooth, though smooth enough too, what was 
to be seen of it, under the stars of a winter 

I stood on the break and likewise looked 
about me. To anchor, and alone, lay the 
vessel, with but her riding-light to mark her 
in the dark, alone and quiet, with never 
a neighbour to hail us, nor a sound from any 
living thing whatever. The very gulls them- 
selves were asleep ; only the fores' 1, swaying 
to a short sheet, would roll part way to wind- 
'ard and back to loo'ard, but quiet as could be 
even then, except for the little tapping noises 
of the reef points when in and out the belly 
of the canvas would puff up and let down again 
to what little wind was stirring. 

Vol xlix.— 17. 

It was almost a perfect calm night. But 
no calm day was to follow. " Wicked weather 
ahead," said Hugh Glynn, and came and stood 
beside me on the break. " A wicked day 
coming, but no help for it now till daylight 
comes to see our trawls to haul 'em." 

And seeming to have settled that in his 
mind, he said no more of it, but from mainm'st 
to weather rail he paced, and back again, and 
I took to pacing beside him. 

A wonderful time, the night watches at sea, 
for men to reveal themselves. Night and 
sky overhead, and the wide ocean to your 
elbow, it drives men to thought of higher 
things. The wickedest of men — I have seen 
them, with all manner of blasphemies befoul- 
ing their lips by day, to become holy as little 
children in the watches of the night. 

No blasphemer was Hugh Glynn, nor did 
the night hold terror for him ; only, as we 
paced the break together, he spoke of matters 
that only himself and his God could know. 
It was hard to listen and be patient, though 
maybe it was as much of wonder as of 
impatience was taking hold of me as I 

" Do you never fear what men might come 
to think of you, Captain Glynn," I said, 
" confessing your very soul ? " 

" Ho, ho, that's it, is it ? " He came to 
a sudden stop in our walking. " I should 
only confess the body — is that it, Simon 
Kippen ? And, of course, when a man con- 
fesses to one thing of his own free will, you 
know there must be something worse behind ? 
Is that it, Simon ? " 

He chuckled beside me, and, as if only to 
scandalize me, let his tongue run wilder yet. 

His tales were of violations of laws such as 
it had been my religion to observe since I was 
a boy, and little except of the comic, ridiculous 
side of them all. The serious matters of life, 
judging by what he spoke to me so far this 
night, had small interest for him. But the 
queer power of the man ! Had it been light 
where he could see me, I would have choked 
before ever I would let him see me smile, 

but He caught me at it, and straightened 

up, chuckling, and said : — 

" Many other things you would smile at too, 
Simon, if your bringing up would but allow 
the frost to thaw from ycur soul." 

"And are reckless carryings-on and 
desperate chancing things to smile at ? " 

" Oh, Simon, Simon, what a lucky man 
you're to be that never expects to see the day 
when no harbour this side of God's eternal 
sea will offer you the only safe and quiet 




Again I saw Mary Snow sitting at the 
window and looking down the street, and, 
remembering how she had spoken of his 
lonely home, I said, " No doubt a man, like 
a vessel, Captain Glynn, should have always 
a mooring somewhere. I wonder you never 
thought of marrying again." 

"I have thought of it." 

" And with some one woman in mind ? " 

" It may be." 

He answered that, too, without a pause. 

" And does she know ? " 

" It may be she knows. No knowing when 
they know, Simon. As men best understand 
the soul, so it is woman's best gift to under- 
stand the heart. But no fair play in me to 
ask her. Fve had my great hour and may 
not have it again with another. To offer 
such anything less than a great love, it would 
be to cheat, Simon. No, no, no, it's not the 
kind of a man I am now, but the kind you 
are, Simon, should marry." 

" It's not my kind that women like best, 
Captain," I said. 

" There are women to like every kind, 
Simon, and almost any kind of a woman 
would like your kind, Simon, if you would 
only learn to be less ashamed of what is no 
shame. And it is you, already in love, who 
should " 

" Me — in love ! " I was like a vessel luffing 
to escape a squall, he had come on me so 

" There it is — the upbringing of you that 
would never own up to what you think only 
yourself know. Three weeks to sea now you've 
been with me, and never a gull you've seen 
skirling to the west'ard that your eyes haven't 
followed. By no mistake do you watch them 
flying easterly. And when last evening I 
said, € To-morrow, boys, we'll swing her off 
and drive her to the west'ard — and Glouces- 
ter,' the leaping heart in you fair drove the 
blood to your very eyes. Surely that was 
not in sorrow, Simon ? " 

I made no answer. 

Back and forth we paced, and talked as 
we paced, until the stars were dimming in the 
sky and the darkness fading from the sea. 
He stopped by the rail and stared, aweary- 
like I thought, out upon the waters. 

" Simon, surely few men but would rather 
be themselves than anybody else that lives ; 
but surely, too, no man sailing his own wide 
courses but comes to the day when he wishes 
he'd been less free in his navigating at times. 
You are honest and right, Simon. Even when 
you are wrong you are right, because to do 
what you think is right, whether you are right 

or wrong, is to come to be surely right in the 
end. And it is the like of you, not yet aweary 
in soul or body, should mate with the women 
moulded of God to be the great mothers." 

" You have done much thinking of some 
matters, Captain," I said, not knowing what 
else to say. 

" Alone at sea before the dawn is a wonder- 
ful hour for a man to cross-question himself, 
Simon, and not many nights to sea of late 
years that I haven't seen the first light of 
dawn creeping up over the edge of the ocean. 
You marry Mary Snow, Simon." 

He knew. What could I say ? 

" I never thought to talk like this, Captain, 
to a living man." In the growing light we 
now stood plain to each other's sight. " I don't 
understand what made me," I said, and said 
it, doubtless, with a touch of shame. 

" It may be just as well that at your age 
you don't understand every feeling that 
drives you on, Simon. Our brains grow with 
age, but not our hearts. No matter what 
made you talk to-night, Simon, you marry 
Mary Snow." 

I shook my head, but opened my heart to 
him nevertheless. 

"It will be Saul Haverick between us two, 
I think." 

" Simon, it's my guess to-night that Mary 
Snow will never marry Saul Haverick. Not 
that her life would be spoiled altogether if 
she should marry him. She's too strong a 
soul to be spoiled of her life by any one man. 
No matter what man she marries, in her 
heart will be the image, not of the man her 
husband is, but of the man she'd wish him 
to be, and in the image of that man of her 
fancy will her children be born. Women 
moulded of God to be the mothers of great 
men are fashioned that way, Simon. They 
dream great dreams for their children's sake, 
and their hearts go out to the man who will 
make their dreams come true. If I've learned 
anything of good women in life, Simon, it is 
that. And, no saying, I may be wrong in 
that, too, Simon, but so far I've met no man 
who knows more than I of it to gainsay me. 
You marry Mary Snow, Simon, and she will 
bear you children who will bring new light to 
a darkening world." 

The dawn was rolling up to us, and the next 
on watch was on deck to relieve me ; and the 
cook, too, with his head above the fo'c'sle 
hatch, was calling that breakfast was ready, 
and we said no more of that. 

" Go forard, Simon," said Captain Glynn, 
" and have your breakfast. After breakfast 
we'll brea©rVbflW" her anchor and out dories, 




, :* 


and get that gear aboard afore it's too late* 
1 U go below find sec how Saul's getting on."' 

With that he went into the cabin, but was 
soon back to take his seat at the breakfast- 
table ; but no word of Saul until we had done 
eating and he standing to go up on deck. 
Then he said, ct Saul says he is still too sick 
to go in the dory with you, Simon/' 

And to that I said, " Well, I've hauled 
a trawl single-handed before, Captain Glynn, 
*nd I can do it again if need be/' 

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He put on his woollen cap, and across the 
table he looked at me, and I looked hard at 

" This will be no morning to go single- 
handed in a dory, Simon. Saul is not too 
sick, he says, to stand to the wheel and handle 
the vessel in my place. I will take his place 
along with you in the dory/' 

What he was thinking I could not say. 
His head was thrown back and his eyes look- 
ing out and down at me, as from the top of 





a far-away hill, and no more knowing what 
thoughts lay behind them than what creatures 
lay under the sea. 

It was a red sunrise and a sea that was 
making when we left the vessel, but nothing 
to worry over in that. It might grow into 
a dory-killing day later, but so far it was only 
what all winter trawlers face more days than 
they can remember. We picked up our 
nearest buoy, with its white and black flag 
floating high to mark it, and as we did to 
wind'ard of us we could see, for five miles it 
might be, the twisted lines of the vessel's 
other dories stretching. Rising to the top of 
a sea we could see them, sometimes one and 
sometimes another, lifting and falling, and 
the vessel lifting and falling to wind'ard of 
them all. 

Hugh Glynn took the bow to do the hauling, 
and myself the waist for coiling, and it was 
a grand sight to see him heave in on that 
heavy gear on that December morning. Many 
men follow the sea, but not many are born to 
it. Hugh Glynn was. Over the hurdy-gurdy 
he hauled the heavy lines, swinging forward 
his shoulders, first one and then the other, 
swaying from his waist, and all in time to 
the heave of the sea beneath him, and singing, 
as he heaved, the little snatches of songs that 
I believe he made up himself as he went along. 

As he warmed to his work he stopped to 
draw off the heavy sweater that he wore 
over his woollen shirt, and made as if to throw 
it in the bow of the dory. 

" But no," he said, " it will get wet there. 
You put it on you, Simon, and keep it dry 
for me." 

He was a full size bigger than me in every 
way, and I put it on over my cardigan jacket 
and under my oil jacket, and it felt fine and 
comfortable on me. It came time for me to 
spell him on the hauling, but he waved me back. 

" Let be, let be, Simon," he said. " It's 
fine light exercise for a man of a brisk morning. 
A long time since I hauled a trawl, and it's 
making me think I'm a lad again, and remind- 
ing me of the day I hauled my first trawl on 
the Banks. Looking back on it now, Simon, 
I mind how the bravest sight I thought I ever 
saw was our string of dories racing afore the 
tide in the blue sea of a sunny winter's morn- 
ing, and the vessel, like a mother to her little 
boats, standing off and on to see that nothing 
happened the while we hauled and coiled and 
gaffed inboard the broad-backed halibut. All 
out of myself with pride I was — me no more 
than a lad, but hauling halibut trawls with 
full-grown men on the Grand Banks that 

He took to the hauling again, and soon to 
the singing of it. And he sang : — 

My lad comes miming down the street, 
And what says he to me ? 
Says he : " Oh, dadda, dadda. 
And you're back again from sea ! 

And did you ketch a great big fish 
And bring him home to me ? 
Oh, dadda, dadda, take me up 
, ., And toss me high ! " says he. 

My love looks out on the stormy morn, 
Her thoughts are on the sea. 
She says : " Tis wild upon the Banks, 1 ' 
And kneels in prayer for me. 

" Oh, Father, hold him safe ! " she prays, 
« And " 

" There's one, Simon," he called. 

A bad sea he meant. They had been 
coming and going, coming and going, rolling 
under and past us, and so far no harm ; 
but this was one more wicked to look at 
than its mates. So I dropped the coiling 
lines, and with the oar already to the becket 
in the stern whirled the dory's bow head on. 
The sea carried us high and far, and, passing, 
left the dory deep with water, but no harm 
in that so she was still right side up. We 
stopped to bail. 

" A good job, Simon," said Hugh Glynn. 
" Not too soon and not too late." 

That was the first one. More followed in 
their turn, but always the oar was handy in 
the becket, and it was but to whirl bow or 
stern to it with the oar when it came, not too 
soon to waste time for the hauling, but never, 
of course, too late to save capsizing, and 
bailing her out, if need be, when it was by. 

Our trawl was in, our fish in the waist of the 
dory, and we lay to our roding line and second 
anchor, so we might not drift miles to loo'ard 
while waiting for the vessel to pick us up. 
We could see the vessel — to her hull, when to 
the top of a sea we rose together, but nothing 
of her at all when into the hollows we fell 

She had picked up all but the dory next 
to wind'ard to us. We would be the last, 
but before long now she would be to us, 

11 Pick Simon and me up last of all," Hugh 
Glynn had said to Saul, and I remember 
how Saul, standing to the wheel, looked down 
over the taffrail and said, " Simon and you last 
of all," and nodded his head as our dory fell 
away in the vessel's wake. 

Tide and sea was such that there was 
no use trying to row against it, or we would 
not have waited at all ; but we waited, and 
as we waited the wind, which had been 
southerly, went into the east, and snow fell, 
but for not more than a half-hour, when it 




cleared. We stood up and looked about u$. 
There was ho vessel or other dory in sight. 

We said' no word to each other of it, but the 
while we waited further, all the while with a 
wind'ard eye to the bad little seas, we talked. 

44 Did you ever think of dying, Simon ? " 
Hugh Glynn said, after a time. 

" Can a man follow the winter trawling 
long and not think of it at times ? " I answered. 

" And have-you fear of it, Simon ? " 

" I know I have no love for it," I said. 
44 But do you ever think of it — you ? " 

" I do— often. With the double tides 
working to draw me to it, it would be queer if 
now and again I would not think of it." 

" And have you fear of it ? " 

" Of not going properly — I have, Simon." 
And after a little, " Arid I've often thought it 
a pity for a man to go and nothing come of 
his going. Would you like the sea for a 
grave, Simon ? " 

41 1 would not," I answered. 

" Nor me, Simon. A grand, clean grave, 
the ocean ; but the green grave ashore, your 
own beside you, would feel less lonesome — 
or so I've often thought, Simon." 

" I've often thought so," he went on, 
his eyes now on watch for the bad seas, and 
again looking wistful-like at me. "I'd like 
to lie where my wife and boy lie, she to one 
side and the lad to the other, and rise with 
them on Judgment Day. I've a notion, Simon, 
that with them to bear me up I'd stand afore 
the Lord with greater courage. For if what 
some think is true — that it's those we've 
loved in this world will have the right to 
plead for us in the next — then, Simon, there 
will be two to plead for me as few can plead." 

He stood up and looked around. 

" It is a bad sea now, but worse later, and 
a strong breeze brewing, Simon." And drew 
from an inside pocket of his woollen shirt 
a small leather notebook. He held it up for 
me to see, with the slim little pencil held by 
little loops along the edges. " My wife's. 
I've a pocket put in every woollen shirt I wear 
to sea so 'twill be close to me. There's things 
in it she wrote of our little boy. And I'm 
writing here something I'd like you to be 
witness to, Simon." 

He wrote a few lines. 

14 There, Simon, I've thought often this 
trip how 'tis hard on John Snow at his age 
to have to take to fishing again. If I hadn't 
lost Arthur he wouldn't have to. I'm willing 
my vessel to John Snow. Will you witness it, 
Simon ? " 

I signed my name below his, and he set 
the book back in his inside pocket. 

Digitized by Google 

44 And you think our time is come, 
skipper ? " I tried to speak quietly, too. 

" I wouldn't say that, Simon, but foolish 
not to make ready for it." 

I looked about when we rose to the next sea 
for the vessel. But no vessel. I thought 
it hard. 

44 Had you no distrust of Saul Haverick 
this morning ? " I asked. 

" I had. . And last night, Simon." 

44 And you trusted him ? " 

44 A hard world if we didn't trust people, 
Simon. I thought it over again this morning 
and was ashamed, Simon, to think it in me 
to distrust him — a shipmate. I wouldn't 
believed it of any man ever I sailed with. 
But no use to fool ourselves longer. Make 
ready. Over with the fish, over with the 
trawls, over with everything but thirty or 
forty fathom of that roding line and the sail 
and one anphor and the two buoys." 

It was hard to see that fine fish go that 
we'd taken hours to set and haul for— hard, 
too, to heave over the stout gear that had taken 
hours to rig. But there was no more time to 
waste ; over they went. And we topk the 
two buoys — light-made but sound and tight 
half-barrels they were — and we lashed them 
to the risings of the dory. 

44 And now the sail to her, Simon." 

We put the sail to her. 

44 And stand bv to cut clear our anchor- 
age." - 

I stood by with my bait-knife, and when he 
called out I cut, and away we went racing 
before wind and tide, me in the waist on the 
lashed buoy on the wind'ard side to hold her 
down, and he on the wind'ard gunnel, too, 
but aft, with an oar in one hand and the sheet 
of the sail in the other. 

44 And where now ? " I asked, when the 
wind would let me. 

44 The lee of Sable Island lies ahead." 

The full gale was on us now — a living gale, 
and before the gale the sea ran higher than 
ever, and before the high seas the flying dory. 
Mountains of slate-blue water rolled down into 
valleys, and the valleys rolled up into moun- 
tains again, and all shifting so fast that no man 
might point a finger and say, " Here's one, 
there's one!" — quick and wild as that they 

From one great hill we would tumble, only 
to fall into the next great hollow, and never 
did she make one of her wild plunges* but the 
sea blew wide and high over her ; and never 
did she check herself for even the quickest 
of breaths, striving the while to breast up the 
side of a mountain of water, but the sea would 
V-m i q i n d i t ro m 





roll over her and Td say to myself once again, 
" Now at last we're gone." 

We tumbled into the hollows, and a roaring 
wind drove a boiling foam, white as soapsudSj 
atop of us; we climbed up the hills, and the 
roaring wind drove the solid green water 
atop of us. Wind, sea, and milk-white foam 
between them — they seemed all of a mind to 
smother us that day. These things I saw in 
jumps-like, Lathed to the wind'ard buoy I 
Digitized by W 


was by a length of roding linc^ to my knees in 
water the better part of the time, and busy 
enough with the bailing, There was no steady' 
looking to wind'ard, such was the weight of 
the flying bullets of water which the wild wind 
drove off the sea crests ; but a flying glance 
now and again kept me in the run of it* 

I would have wished to be able to do my 
share of the steering, but only Hugh Glynn 
could property ste^r that dory that day. The 




dory would have sunk a hundred times only 
for the buoys in the waist ; but she would have 
capsized more times than that again only for 
the master-hand in the stern. There he sat, 
a man of marble, his jaw like a cliff rising 
above the collar of his woollen shirt, his two 
eyes like two cold lights looking out from 
under his cap brim. 

We were so terribly beset that one time, in 
pure fear, " We'll be lost carrying sail like 
this, Hugh Glynn ! " I called back to him. 

And he answered, " I could never see much 
difference, Simon, between being lost carrying 
sail and being lost hove to." 

After that I said no more. 

And so, to what must have been the wonder 
of wind and sea that day, Hugh Glynn drove 
the little dory far into the night and the lee 
of Sable Island. 

We took in our sail and let go our anchor. 
Hugh Glynn looked long above and about him. 

44 A clear night coming/' said Hugh Glynn, 
" and cold, with the wind backing into the 
no'west. We'll lay here, for big vessels will 
be running for this same lee to-night, and 
maybe a chance for us to be picked up with 
the daylight. Did I do well this day by you, 
Simon ? " 

" Fd be a lost man ten hours back but for 
you," I said. " No man living could do what 
you did this day, skipper." 

<f So you don't hold me a reckless, desperate 
sail carrier, Simon, never mind the rest." 
His eyes were shining. " But your voice is 
weary, Simon, and you're hungry, too, I know, 
after the work of to-day." 

I was hungry and worn, terribly worn, after 
the day, and so told him. 

" Then lie down, and 'twill rest you, and 
for a time make you forget the hunger. And 
while you're lying down, Simon, I'll stand 

And I made ready to lie down when I 
thought of his sweater I was wearing. I 
unbuttoned my oil jacket to get at it. 

" It's colder already, skipper, and you will 
be needing it." 

" No, it is you will be needing it, Simon. 
Being on my feet, d'y' see, I can keep warm 
thrashing around in the dory." 

" Bu* will you call me and take it off if it 
grows too cold, skipper ? " 

" I'll call you when I want it ; lie down 

" A wonderful calm night, full as quiet 

as last night, skipper," I said, " only no harm 
in this night — no gale before us on the 

" No, Simon," he said, " naught but quiet 
before us. But lie down you, boy." 

" And you'll call me, skipper," I said, 
" when my watch comes ? " 

"" I'll call you after my watch is up. Lie 
down now." 

I lay down, meaning to keep awake. But 
I fell asleep. 

When I awoke it was to the voices of strange 
men and the hands of strangers rubbing my 
feet and hands. A voice said, " He's coming 

I sat up. I was still in the dory, and saw, 
besides the men working on me, other men 
looking down from a vessel's side at me. 
'Twas naught but ice along the vessel's rail, 
and the look of ice was all about me. 

I was weak with the fire of the pains 
running through my veins, but, remembering, 
I tried to stand up. 

" Hsh-sh, boy ! " they said. " You are all 
right." And held me down while they rubbed. 

I stood up among them, nevertheless, and 
looked for Hugh Glynn. He was there, curled 
up in the stern, his arms folded over the 
gunnel and his forehead resting on his arms. 

I stood over him and lifted his head to 
see his face. All was peace with him. 

44 Skipper, oh, skipper!" I called out; 
and again, " Oh, skipper ! " 

" Come away, boy," said one of the men who 
had been rubbing my feet. " Only the voice 
o' God can wake him now." 

And so Hugh Glynn died, and so I was 
saved, and came home to marry Mary Snow, 
and in the end to father the children which 
may or may not grow great as he predicted, 
but great in the eyes of the world they may 
become, greater than all living men it might 
be, and yet fall far short in our eyes of the 
stature of the man who thought that 'twas 
better for one to live than for two to die, and 
that one not to be himself. 

Desperate he was and law-breaking, for 
law is law, whosoever it bears hard upon ; 
but the heart was warm within him. And if 
my children have naught else, and it is for 
their mother and me to say, the heart to feel 
for others they will have, and having that, 
the rest may follow or not, as it will. That 
would be Hugh Glynn's way of it, too, I 

by Google 

Original from 





AR takes a derelict out of a 
London gutter, sticks him in 
a trench, and there teaches 
him to shoot, to be shot at, 
and to bear his life carelessly 
as becomes a man. He is 
t ra nsf or med u na ware s * What- 
ever stuff of human greatness got into him at 
the making now rises from tin: depths. He 
finds his soul, if he has one, and opens it to 
moments of pure heroism* It Is something 
on the credit side of war. 

That sudden, rapturous urge for which the 
name is valour, once was thought to be peculiar 
to fine blood. The noble first of all was born* 
Only he knew how to risk the supreme thing 
and tweak the very nose of death. For him 
were orders, knighthood, medals, and all the 
other glory of living by exception to the self- 
preserving rule of common human nature, 
The trade of war was then exclusive. But, 
alas for such pretensions ! war grew demo- 
cratic. The stupid world began to see that 
valour was a leaven of mankind. 

by Google 

On the modern battlefield the raw recruit 
snatched from a city's slums competes on level 
human terms with an officer of any rank or 
birth for a priceless decoration — a few T pence' 
worth of moulded metal dangling from a 
ribbon — which certifies that he who wears 
it once utterly forgot himself for the sake of 
something else- 

This school of heroism of all present insti- 
tutions in the world is, or should be, demo- 
cratic. Great Britain knows that best ; as 
indeed she should^ having waged more wars 
in a hundred years than any other Power, 
And not only has she utilized beyond any 
other nation the honorary medal to reward 
military heroism, but of all the coveted per- 
sonal decorations conferred for valour, the 
one most democratic is of British origin. 

It is the Victoria Cross, instituted in 1856 
at the termination of the Crimean War, by 
Royal warrant of Queen Victoria, as a reward 
for individual acts of gallantry and heroism. 
Cast from cannon taken by the British, in- 
trinsically worth but a few pence, it is regarded 






Victoria in: i886, is 


by a British subject as the proudest decoration 
a human being can wear. All men of all 
grades and ranks and branches of the British 
naval and military service are eligible to win 
it by " some signal act of valour or devotion 
to their country performed in the presence of 
the enemy.** So read the regulations. 

The Cross is worn suspended from the left 
breast , by a blue ribbon for the Navy and red 
for the Army , as well as for civilians who 
have earned it with the latter service. The 
decoration entitles its recipient — officers ex- 
cepted — to an annuity of ten pounds, and a 
further five pounds for each bar or clasp won 
by a second distinctive act of valouf equal to 
or mote heroic than that for which the Cross 
was first conferred. 

Prior to the beginning of the present war 
the number won by British valour was five 
hundred and twenty- two, of which one hun- 
dred were won in the Crimean War, one 
hundred and eighty- two in the Indian Mutiny 9 
seventy-eight in the Boer War, and the 
remainder in thirty-seven minor wars. 

War being a superrational business, we 
. need not be astonished at the paradox that a 
very large proportion of the total number of 
Victoria Crosses conferred have rewarded not 
valour in killing, which is the kind one thinks 
of first, but instances of valour exhibited on 
the field in saving life. 

In the famous charge of the Light Brigade 
at the Battle of Balaclava seven Victoria 
Crosses were won, and only one by a com- 
missioned officer. He was a lieutenant who 
on hearing that one Sergeant Bently, riding a 
weak mount, had dropped behind into the 
hands of the Cossack 5, went back alone and 
fairly cut him out of the enemy's maw. On 
the same field Sergeant Farrel] and Sergeant- 
Major Berryman won each a (toss by taking 
their wounded captain between them^ on a 
chair formed of their haads, and bearing him 
through a galling fire to safety. 

The deed itself, like the Cross itself, need 
have no intrinsic value. A common soldier's 
life intrinsically is worth not very much. A 
general knows beforehand that it will cost 
several thousand to take a certain point, and 
he coolly pays that price in lives ; but in the 
midst of that action an officer may risk his 
own life to save that of a soldier and win the 
Victoria Cross, as Lieutenant Cecil Maygar 
did in South Africa, 

He had galloped out where it was very hot 
to order the retirement of a detached post of 
cavalry. During the retreat a trooper near 
the lieutenant went down with his mount, 
both wounded. The officer dismounted and 
helped the trooper on to his horse, and they 
started; but in a piece of marshv going the 
horse S t^ j ^^.^ lctef j30th. The 




CHeaied HY HATOLWCm 1. 

double load was too much. Then the officer 
put the trooper alone on the horse and ordered 
him to galiop in, he himself taking his chances 

It was not tiie trooper's life that counted : 
it was the saving of it. 

Surgeon-Captain, Martin-Leake in the Boer 
War went out o%Xhe firing-line to assist a 
wounded man, ,Then he went to the aid of 
an officer who had Men, and to the aid of 
others , until he was shot three times and him- 
self lay with the wounded. He got a Victoria 
Cross, as did another surgeon who, during 
the trouble at Crete, exposed himself to a very 
hot fire to return for a member of a landing 
party who had fallen unnoticed in the boat 
and perhaps was only wounded. He was 
dead ; and the surgeon had to go through the 
fire again for nothing — that is, nothing but 
the Victoria Cross. 

The nature of the opportunity determines 
not so much the quality of the act as the inte- 
rest of it At Inkermannj in the Crimean War, 
Private Alfred Ablet t was, with hundreds of 
others, in a trench when the sentry shouted , 
" Look out, there ! " A live shell, uncxploded, 
had fallen into the midst of a pile of ammu- 
nition cases. Ablett, instead of running, 
seized the shell and hurled it out of the trench. 
As it left his hands it exploded and knocked 
him flat, but he was unhurt, He was pro- 
moted to be corporal, then sergeant, ;md then 

he received a silk necktie fashioned by Her 
Majesty's own hands, who also pinned the 
Victoria Cross to his breast, 

Presence of mind adds greatly to the use of 
valour. Aboard H.M.5. Alexandra, during 
the bombardment of Alexandria, a live shell, 
un exploded, fell on the deck and went rolling 
about. Gunner Israel Harding — hearing the 
cry j " Shell come aboard ! ?s — came rushing 
up the hatchway from below, seized the 
hissing thing, and doused it in a tub of water. 
Those were very simple measures; they 
saved the ship and won for Harding the 
Victoria Cross. 

Lord Roberts was the one case of an 
English soldier possessing two Victoria 
Crosses. At the Battle of Colenso, on the 
Modder River, Sir Redvers Buller called for 
volunteers to rescue the guns, and they were 
saved, under a withering Boer fire^ by a small 
party of artillerymen under the command of 
two officers, one of whom was Lieutenant 
Frederick Roberts, of the King's Royal Rifles, 
the Field-Marshal's only son. 

He was mortally wounded while bring- 
ing the guns into the English lines, surviv- 
ing but a few hours. For this gallant feat 
young Roberts w T as nominated for the 
Victoria Cross, and, although he had been 
buried on the battlefield of Colenso long 
before Queen Victoria had rime to sanction 

its iM$ afTfifr ffltor insignia to the 





bereaved father, intimating her wish that he 
should wear it in addition to the one that he 
had won as a young subaltern, forty-three 
years before, in the Indian Mutiny. 

A perusal of the accounts of the deeds for 
which Victoria Crosses have been awarded in 
the present war, even as told in the cold and 
unemotional language of the authorities, shows 
that the British Army and Navy are still 
animated by the fighting spirit of other days. 
We have space for no more than two instances, 
but the whole history of war contains no 
finer feats* One of the earliest recipients 
was Private George Wilson, who started hfe 
as a newsboy, and oiiy a few months ago was 
selling newspapers in the streets of his native 
city of Edinburgh, The deed which gained 
for him this most coveted of all decorations 
is thus set forth in the official record ; — 

" Private George Wilson, 2nd Batt., High- 
land Light Infantry. — For* most conspicuous 
gallantry on the 14th September, near 
Yerneuil, in attacking a hostile machine gun, 
accompanied by only one man. When the 
latter was killed he went on alone, shot the 
officer and six men working the gun, which he 

For coolness and daring few deeds have 
equalled that of Lieutenant Norman Douglas 
Ho! brook, of the Royal Navy, who was 
awarded the Cross : " For most conspicuous 
bravery on December 13th, when in com* 

mand of the Submarine 1* 11 he entered the 
Dardanelles, and, notwithstanding the vera 
difficult current, dived his vessel under five 
rows of mines and torpedoed the Turkish 
battleship Messudiyeh, which was guarding 
the mine-field. 

" Lieutenant Holbrook succeeded in bring- 
ing the B ir safely back, although assailed 
by gun-fire and torpedo-boats, having been 
submerged on one occasion for nine 

There are two other British medals for 
distinguished war services. Unlike the 
Victoria Cross, which is open to all, the 
D istin gu i sh ed Service Order and t he, ne w 
Military (toss are conferred only on certain 
ranks. The new Cross, it may be added, 
is to be worn before all decorations and 
medals except the V.C 

There are two very famous French decora- 
tions — that of the Order oE the Legion of 
Honour,, created by Napoleon I./ and the 
still more highly-prized Medaille Militaire, 
instituted nearly half a century later by his 
nephew, Napoleon III. The Cross of the 
Legion of Honour is not restricted to army 
men, but is likewise conferred upon civilians 
and foreigners for services other than 

The Medaille Militaire is conferred only for 
military and naval services in war-time, and 
is limited fe'ngtfa^tfe? n"hon-commissioned 






officers , and generals. When it is worn by an 
officer, it indicates that he has commanded 
an army in the field, and has rendered ser- 
vices so great that even the highest grade of 
the Legion of Honour would be an inadequate 

It was on these grounds that it was bestowed 
in September last by the French Government 
upon King Albert of Belgium. 

On the breast of a private or non-commis- 
sioned officer of the army, or on that of a 
sailor , or of a warrant officer of the navy, it 
means that he has performed some act of 
exceptional heroism under fire* 

Belgium, though it has astonished the 
world by its valour in arms, has the kind of 
honorary medal you would most naturally 
expect. It is of the Order of Leopold, founded 
in 1808, which is conferred as a personal 
decoration for merit, and may be won by 
military valour, 

Belgium has been too preoccupied with 
heroism to think of the symbols for it ; but 
in the meantime the French liave bestowed 
the decoration of the Legion of Honour upon 
the city of Liege. 

Among the most inaccessible of decorations 
is the Grand Cross of the Russian Order of 
St, George t founded by Catherine the Great 
in 1769* In all its history of more than one 
hundred and fifty years there have been but 
four Russians to receive the Grand Cross, 

The first was the Empress Catherine herself, 
who assumed it ex officio. 

The late Grand Duke Michael Nicholaie- 
vltchj having received the inferior grades in 
the Crimean and Caucasus wars, was awarded 
the Grand Cross for his achievements as 
commander-in-chief of the Russian army in 
Asia Minor during the war with Turkey in 
1877. His brother, Grand Duke Nicholas 
Nicholaievitch, was on the same occasion 
elected a Knight Grand Cross of the Order 
for his victorious leadership of the Russian 
forces in Europe to San Stefano, within sight 
of the walls of Constantinople, while Czar 
Alexander II, was persuaded by the knights 
of the Order to don its Grand Cross on the 
occasion of the celebration of the centennial 
of its foundation. 

Czar .Alexander III. possessed only the 
second class of the Order, which wqs bestowed 
upon him w r hile still Czarevitch for his com- 
mand of the Rustchuk division of the Russian 
army in the Turkish War of 1877, and 
Emperors Nicholas I, and Alexander I. de- 
clined to accept or wear anything but the 
insignia of the fourth class of the Order, This 
was also awarded to the present commander- 
in-chief of the Russian army — the Grand 
Duke Nicholas Nicholaievitch, who won it as 
a young officer of cavalry in the Turkish War 
of 1877. Original from 





Order, although it may be awarded to him 
by the Chapter if he takes the field in this 
war. Until now he has never been under fire. 

There are five classes of the St. George 
Cross. The tower classes, that is, the fourth 
and fifth j are in theory democratic , so that 
one may say the St. George decoration is 
worn with pride alike by grand dukes, nobles > 
veterans of peasant birth , and non-com- 
missioned officers, But it is by far too 
exclusive to be a popular decoration. 

It has more in common with the Order of 
Maria Theresa than with the Victoria Cross 
or the Iron Cross or the French Medal. 

The Japanese V.C., which is known as 
" The Order of the Golden Kite/' was 
instituted by the Mikado some twenty-five 
years ago to commemorate the two thousand 
five hundred and fifty-fifth anniversary of 
the Coronation of Jimmu Tenno, the semi- 
mythical first Sovereign of Japan. The bird 
which adorns the front of the medal recalls 
a Japanese tradition to the effect that one 
of the early Emperors was enabled to gain a 
great victory through his troops being guided 
to the enemy's position by a kite. Another 
version is that when the Emperor was march- 
ing his forces against the enemy, a bird of 
dazzling brilliance perched upon the point 
of his bow and, blinding the eyes of the rebels, 
secured victory to the Imperial troops. 

There are seven grades of the decoration, 
which is suspended from a green and white 
ribbon ^ and ? like our own Victoria Cross, its 
bestowal entitles its owner to a pension, 
which varies according to the grade awarded, 
Both soldiers and sailors can win it for 
conspicuous gallantry in the face of the foe,^ 
and it is so seldom given that it is one of 
Japan's most prized decorations. On a few 
memorable occasions the Order has been 
personally bestowed upon the recipients by 
the Mikado in the presence of the Court. 

Gallant Serbia, which has played such 
a memorable part in the war, rewards her 
heroes with a decoration known as the 
Medal for Bravery. This decoration , which 
was created about fnrty years ago, bears on 
one side a portrait of Miloch Obilkch, one 
of the great national heroes , and on the 
other the words, " For Bravery " in Serbian. 
It is open to men of all ranks , but* unlike 
our Victoria Cross, it does not entitle its 
recipient to a pension. 

Another highly -prized decoration is the 
famous Iron Cross of Prussia, now being 
conferred in such profusion by the Kaiser 
as to cause some uneasiness as to its future 
prestige. It might become too common. It 
was instituted in 1813 by King Frederick 
William IIL, to reward heroism in the War 
of Liberation. It was revived by the former 








Emperor William in 1870, and again by his 
grandson at the beginning of the present war 
last August. 

The Iron Cross was the first German 
military decoration to be conferred irrespec- 
tive of the rank of the recipient. Privates 
ul peasant birth on numerous occasions re- 
ceived the first class of the Order, while 
nobles, generate commanding brigades and 
divisions, and "evert German Sovereigns, were 
proud to receive the second and lower 

The medal of the first class is conferred 
only as a promotion from the second class , 
and no one is supposed to gain the first 
without having previously won the second T 
advancement in the Order of the Iron Cross 
being granted solely for an additional act 
of heroism. The Cross is peculiarly a symbol 
of sacrifice. When Frederick William III. 
issued his calf to the people to rise against 
Napoleon's legions in the great struggle for 
liberation, and appealed to those who could 
not bear arms to contribute what they could 
to the sinews of war, hundreds of thousands 
of women sent their golden wedding-rings to 
be melted , declaring that thenceforth until 
better days they would content themselves 
with wedding-rings of iron. It was this that 
gave Frederick William III. the idea of using 
iron for the decoration to be conferred for 
heroism in the War of Liberation. 

The Kaiser has one other decoration to 
bestow — that of " Pour le Merite/' founded 
by Frederick the Great, It is restricted to 
the reward of naval and military services 
of commissioned officers. 

As Knighthood and Orders, with their 
medals and jewels and perquisites, have 
declined in importance and in people's esti- 
mation, respect for the honorary medal 
simply open to merit and valour has risen, 
and one is tempted to say that it is a measure 
of the degree in which the world has become 
democratized. And yet the preference of 
nobility for the exclusive decoration is 
strongly inherited. It is more than vanity. 
It is emotion, Francis Joseph, the Emperor 
of Austria j feeling no doubt a nervous de- 
mand for emotional expression, sent the 
following message to the Kaiser before the 
end of August : — 

4 * The splendid victories gained by the 
German armies under your command over 
your powerful enemies are due to your iron 
will. You have sharpened and swung the 
mighty sw : ord> To the laurels which adorn 
ycu as victor I should like to add the highest 
military honour which it is in my power to 
confer j by asking you to accept the Grand 
Cross of Maria Theresa." 

This decoration _carries with it a large 
annuity oPltftiftii/WHfch a king cannot be 
thouHWv^M*0l&«l(3t«fiRh*o a poor hero 



might r>e $ temptation. But for that, one 
could say with certainty that hundreds of 
thousands of valorous men would prefer the 
Victoria Cross or the Iron Cross or the Medaille 
Miiitaire to the Grand (toss of the Order of 
Maria Theresa t though that is to-day the most 
txdusive and perhaps the most brilluml ..I 
surviving Orders, It was founded by the 
great Empress of that name in 1757 , in honour 
of the victory of her troops over Frederick 
the Great at Kolin. Its members are elected 
by ballot on the part of the Chapter, the 
Sovereign having no voice in the matter unless 
he happens to possess the Order, although he 
is the instrument of its bestowal and the 
signer of the patent, 

lathe past hundred years, until last August, 
only fifty -eight members had been thus 
admitted to the Order, and at the 
beginning of the present war there were but 
three knights Jeft, all of the third and lowest 

One was the Emperor Francis Joseph, who 
won the Cross in 1848, on the battlefield of 
Santa Lucia ; against the Italians. The 
second was the Duke of Cumberland, father of 
the Sovereign Duke of Brunswick, who re- 
ceived the Cross for gallantry at the Battle of 
Lingensalza, where, as Crown Prince of 
Hanover, 3 helped his father, the blind 
King George, to direct the operations of his 



troops. The third was Prince Alphonse de 
Bourbon, claimant to the throne of the Two 
Sicilies, and popularly known as the Count 
of Caserta. He won his Cross by the part 
he played in the superb defence of Gaeta, 
the last stronghold of the Uourbons, 

A 1 ! three are now old men, and but for the 
present war, which will doubtless provide 
opportunities for the election of new 
knights, the Order would soon have been 

Its renewal was begun by the bestowal of 
the first class or Grand Cross of the Order 
upon the Kaiser. The requirement for this 
grade is to have commanded in chief a 
victorious army against tremendous odds. 

The second class is reserved for acts of 
brilliant daring and initiative, which in the 
event of failure might entail court martial, 
and possibly sentence of death for dis- 
obedience. The last one to possess this grade 
was old General Baron von Hauser, In the 
war of 1849, on reaching the town of Volta, 
he found its situation so favourable for 
defence that he determined to make a 
stand there ' with his regiment, instead of 
following the remainder of his division, in 
accordance with the strict instructions 

It was a ..flagrant . act of disobedience* 
But so gallant 1 WM'tifi^efcnce which he 





made of the little town, and so favour- 
able the strategic location of the 
place, that with his handful of men he 
succeeded in keeping the entire Italian 
army in check for eighteen hours, and turned 
the tide. 

What the medals illustrated an; to the Eng- 
lish, French, and German, the Congressional 
Medal is to the American soldier. It is 
conferred not by the President, nor yet by 
the Secretary of State for War, but by Act of 
Congress, on the nomination of the War 
Department. The number of recipients of 
the honour is still under two thousand. It 
dates from the War of the Union, having 
been instituted by Congress on March 3rd, 
1863, and among its possessors are Lieutenant- 
General Nelson A. Miles, who won it as 

colonel of the 61st New York Volunteers, in 
an engagement on May 3rd, 1863, by the 
bravery which he displayed in holding a 
line against a vastly superior force of Con- 
federates, and by inspiring his men to suc- 
cessful resistance, after having himself been 
badly wounded. 

General J. Franklin Bell received his 
Congressional Medal for having on September 
8th, 18^9, as Colonel of the 36th 
Volunteer Infantry, at Santa Rita, in the 
Island of Luzon } galloped far ahead of his 
men, and attacked, absolutely alone, an 
outpost party of seven insurgents, consisting 
of a captain, a lieutenant, and five privates. 
He cut down the captain and two of 
the men, and compelled the other four to 

Decorations reproduced by courtesy of American Numismatic Society, 
Messrs. Spink &r Son, etc. 

by Google 

Original from 

Concealed Art 


* Ifliisiraied Jby " 

% « 

F a fellow has lots of money 
and lots of time and lots of 
curiosity about other fellows' 
business, it is astonishing, 
don't you know, what a lot 
of strange affairs he can get 
mixed up in. Now, I have 
money and curiosity and all the time there is. 
My name's Pepper — Reggie Pepper. My 
uncle was the colliery-owner chappie, and he 
left me the dickens of a pile. And ever since 
the lawyer slipped the stuff into my hand and 
closed my fingers over it, whispering, " It's 
yours ! " life seems to have been one thing 
after another. 

For instance, the dashed rummy case of 
dear old Archie. 

I first ran into old Archie when he was 
studying in Paris, and when he came back 
to London he looked me up, and we cele- 
brated. He always liked me because I didn't 
mind listening to his theories of Art. For 
Archie, you must know, was an artist. Not an 
ordinary artist, either, but one of those fellows 
you read about who art several years ahead 
of the times, and paint the sort of thing that 
people will be educated up to by about 1999 
or thereabouts. What's the word ? Futurists 
— that's it. Dear old Archie was a Futurist, 
and his trouble was that most of the fellows 
down Chelsea way, not being educated up 
to him, used to fling lay-figures and mahl- 
sticks and things at him when he uncorked 
his artistic theories, and this rather jarred on 
the poor old boy, so, whenever he wanted 
sympathy, he would come and talk to me, 
and I would sit and say, " Perfectly ripping, 
old lad ! " at intervals, and he would go back 

to his studio feeling fit for work again. The 
consequence was that he got very much 
attached to me, and came to think a frightful 
lot of my good sense and judgment, which 
was how I got dragged into the thing I'm 
going to tell you about. 

Mind you, I don't want to give you a wrong 
idea of old Archie. On every other subject 
except Art he was as sensible as you could 
wish. I have sat beside him at the Chelsea 
Football Ground, and absolutely marvelled 
at the breadth and vigour of the way he talked 
of the referee when he didn't like the way 
he used the whistle, and he could imitate an 
Irish cook talking to an Italian organ-grinder 
better than anyone I have ever heard. It was 
only when he got on to the subject of his 
pictures that you felt like notifying the Com- 
missioners in Lunacy. 

Well, one day as I was sitting in the club, 
watching the traffic coming up one way and 
going down the other, and thinking of nothing 
in particular, in blew the old boy. He was 
looking rather worried. 

" Reggie, I want your advice." 

" You shall have it," I said. " State your 
point, old top." 

" It's like this — I'm engaged to be married." 

" My dear old scout, a million con " 

" Yes, I know. Thanks very much, and 
all that, but listen." 

" What's the trouble ? Don't you like 

A kind of rapt expression came over his face. 

" Like her ! Why, she's the only " 

He gibbered for a spell. When he had 
calmed down, I said, " Well, then, what's 
yourtrouble : 3 r y gina|from 




11 Reggie/' he said, " do you think a man 
is bound to tell his wife all about his past 
life ? " 

" Oh, well," I said, " of course, I suppose 
she's prepared to find that a man has — er — 
sowed his wild oats, don't you know, and all 
that sort of thing, and ■" 

He seemed quite irritated. 

** Don't be a chump. It's nothing like 
that. Listen. When I came back to London 
and started to try and make a living by 
painting, I found that people simply wouldn't 
buy the sort of work I did at any price. 
Do you know., Reggie, IVe been at it three 
years now, and 1 
haven't sold a single 

I whooped in a 
sort of amazed way, 
but I should have 
been far more 
startled if hed told 
me he had sold a 
picture. I've seen 
his pictures , and 
they are like 
nothing on earth. 
So far as I can make 
out what he says, 
they aren't sup- 
posed to be. There's 
one in particular, 
called "The Coming 
of Summer/' which 
I sometimes dream 
about when I've 
been hitting it up 
a shade too 
vigorously. It's all 
dots and splashes, 
with a great eye 
staring out of the 
middle of the mess* 
It looks as if 

summer, just as it was on the way, had 
stubbed its toe on a bomb. He tells me 
it's his masterpiece, and that he will never 
do anything like it again. I should like to 
have that in writing, 

" Well, artists eat, just the same as other 
people/ 1 he went on, " and personally I like 
mine often and well cooked. Besides which, 
my sojourn in that dear Paris gave me a rather 
nice taste in light wines. The consequence 
was that I came to the conclusion, after I had 
been back a few months, that something had 
to be done, Reggie, do you by any remote 
chance read a paper called Funny Slices ¥ " 

" Every week," 

Digitized by Google 

lie gazed at me with a kind of wistful 

" I envy you, Reggie, Fancy being able 
to make a statement like that openly and 
without fean Then I take it you know the 
Doughnut family ? " 

" I should say I did." 

His voice sank almost to a whisper, and he 
looked over his shoulder nervously, 

u Reggie, I do them." 

"You what?" 

" I do them— draw them— paint them. I 
am the creator of the Doughnut family." 

I stared at him, absolutely astounded. I 


was simply dumb- It was the biggest surprise 

I had had in my life, Why, dash it, the 

Doughnut family was the best thing in its 

line in London/ There is Pa Doughnut, 

Ma Doughnut, Aunt Bella, Cousin Joe, and 

.Mabel, the £ la Lighter, and they have all sorts 

of slap-stick adventures. Pa, Ma, and Aunt 

Bella are pure gargoyles ; Cousin Joe is a little 

more nearly semi -human, and Mabel is a 

perfect darting. I had often wondered who 

did them, for they were unsigned, and I had 

often thought what a deuced brainy fellow 

the chap must be. And all the time it was 

dear old Archie. I stammered as I tried to 

congratulate him. 
D uri gin ar from 




He winced. 

" Don't gargle, Reggie, there's a good 

fellow," he said. " My nerves are all on edge. 

Well, as I say, I do the Doughnuts. It was 

I that or starvation. I got the idea one night 

| when I had toothache, and next day I took 

some specimens round to an editor. He 

' rolled in his chair, and told me to start in and 

go on till further notice. Since then I have 

i done them without a break. Well, there's the 

position. I must go on drawing these infernal 

things, or 1 shall be penniless. The question 

is. am I to tell her ? " 

"Tell her? Of course you must tell her." 

" Ah, but you don't know her, Reggie. 
Have you ever heard of Eunice Nugent ? " 

" Not. to my knowledge." 

" As she doesn't sprint up and down the 
joy-way at the Hippodrome, I didn't suppose 
you would." 

I thought this rather uncalled-for, seeing 
that, as a matter of fact, I scarcely know a 
dozen of the Hippodrome chorus, but I made 

(allowances for his state of mind. 
" She's a poetess," he went on, " and her 
work has appeared in lots of good magazines. 
I My idea is that she would be utterly horrified 
if she knew, and could never be quite the same 
to me again. But I want you to meet her 
and judge for yourself. It's just possible that 
I am taking too morbid a view of the matter, 
and I want an unprejudiced outside opinion. 
Come and. lunch with us at the Piccadilly 
i to-morrow, will you ? " 

He was absolutely right. One glance at 
Miss Nugent told me that the poor old boy 
had got the correct idea. I hardly know how 
to describe the impression she made on me. 
On the way to the Pic. Archie had told me 
that what first attracted him to her was the 
fact that she was so utterly unlike Mabel 
Doughnut; but. that had not prepared me 
for what she really was. She was kind of 
intense, if you know what I mean — kind of 
spiritual. She was perfectly pleasant, and 
drew me out about golf and all that sort of 
thing ; but all the time I felt that she con- 
sidered me an earthy worm whose loftier soul- 
essence had been carelessly left out of his 
composition at birth. She made me wish that 
I had never seen a musical comedy or danced 
on a supper-table on New Year's Eve. And 
il that was the impression she made on me, 
you can understand why poor old Archie jibbed 
at the idea of bringing her Funny Slices, 
and pointing at the Doughnuts and saying, 
" Me — I did it ! " The notion was absolutely 
out of the question. The shot wasn't on the 

by Google 

board. I told Archie so directly we were 

" Old top," I said, " you must keep it dark." 

" I'm afraid so. But I hate the thought 
of deceiving her." 

" You must get used to that now you're 
going to be a married man," I said. 

" The trouble is, how am I going to account 
for the fact that I can do myself pretty well — 
have most things, in fact, the same as mother 
used to make it ? " 

" Why, tell her you have private means, of 
course. What's your money invested in ? " 

" Practically all of it in B. and O. P. Rails. 
It is a devilish good thing. A pal of mine put 
me on to it." 

" Tell her that you have a pile of money in 
B. and O. P., then. She'll take it for granted 
it's a legacy. A spiritual girl like Miss Nugent 
isn't likely to inquire further." 

" Reggie, I believe you're right. It cuts 
both ways, that spiritual gag. I'll do it." 

They were married quietly. I held the 
towel for Archie, and a spectacled girl with 
a mouth like a rat-trap, who was something 
to do with the. Woman's Movement, saw fair 
play for Eunice. And then they went off to 
Scotland for their honeymoon. I wondered 
how the Doughnuts were going to get on in 
old Archie's absence, but it seemed that he 
had buckled down to it and turned out three 
months' supply in advance. He told me that 
long practice had enabled him to Doughnut 
almost without conscious effort. When he 
came back to London he would give an hour 
a week to them and do them on his head. 
Pretty soft ! It seemed to me that the 
marriage was going to be a success. 

One gets out of touch with people when 
they marry. I am not much on the social- 
call game, and for nearly six months I don't 
suppose I saw Archie more than twice or 
three times. When I did, he appeared sound 
in wind and limb, and reported that married 
life was all to the velvet, and that he regarded 
bachelors like myself as so many excrescences 
on the social system. He compared me, if 
I remember rightly, to a wart, and advocated 
drastic treatment. 

It was perhaps seven months after he had 
told Eunice that he endowed her with all his 
worldly goods — she not suspecting what the 
parcel contained — that he came to me un- 
expectedly one afternoon with a face so long 
and sick-looking that my finger was on the 
button and I was ordering brandy and soda 
before he had time to speak. 

" Reggie," he said, " an awful thing has 

Original from 



happened. Have you 
seen the paper to-day ? " 

" Yes. Why ? " 

** Did you read the 
Stock Exchange news ? 
Did you see that some 
lunatic has been jumping 
around with a club and 
hammering the stuffing 
out of B.andO. P. ? This 
afternoon they are worth 
practically nothing, " 

11 By Jove ! And all 
your money was in B. 
and O. P. ! *\Vhat rotten 
luck ! " Then I spotted 
the silver lining. l * But, 
after all, it doesn't 
matter so very much. 
What I mean is f bang go 
your little savings and 
ail that sort of thing ; but, 
after all, you re making 
quite a good income, so 
why worry ? TJ 

He gave me the sort 
of look a batsman gives 
the umpire when he 
gives him out leg-before- 

" 1 might have known 
you would miss the 
point/' he said. l * Can't 
you understand the 
situation ? This morning 
at breakfast Eunice got 
holt! of the paper first. 
' Archie; she said, * didn't 
you tell me all vour 
money was in B. and 
O. P.*?' ' Yes/ I said. 
1 Why ? ■ ( Then we're 
ruined/ Now do you sec ? 
If I had had time to 
think, I could have said 
that I had another chunk 
in something else, but I 
had committed myself. 
I have either got to tell 
her about those infernal Doughnuts, or else 
conceal the fact that f had money coming in.' y 

u Great Scot ! What on earth are you going 
to do ? " 

£L I can't think. We can struggle along in 
a sort of way, for it appears that she has small 
private means of her own, The i lea at 
present is that we shall live on them* We're 
selling the car, and trying to get out of the 
rest of our lease up at the flat, and then we're 

Digitized by GoOglc 



going to look about for a cheaper place, 
probably down Chelsea way, so as to he near 
my studio. What was that stuff I've l>een 
drinking? Ring for another of the same, 
there's a good fellow. In fact, 1 think you 
had better keep your finger permanently on 
the bell. I shall want all they've got/' 

The spectacle of a fellow human being 
up to his neck in the consommi is painful ? of 
Original from 





course, but there's certainly what the adver- 
tisements at the top of magazine stories call 
a lt tense human interest " about it, and I'm 
bound to say that I saw as much as possible 
of poor old Archie from now on. His sad 
case fascinated me. It was rather thrilling 
to see him wrestling with New Zealand 
mutton-hash and draught beer down at his 
Chelsea flat, with all the suppressed anguish 




of a man who hasiet himself get accustomed 
to delicate food and vintage wines, and think 
that a word from him could send him whizzing 
back to the old life again whenever he wished. 
But at what a cost, as they say in the novels. 
That was the catch. He might hate this new 
order of things, but his lips were sealed. 

He loathed it, poor old lad ! He was an 
independent sort of a chap, and the thought 
that he was living on his wife's money hit 
him pretty hard. And the food problem was 
almost as bad. 1 had him to lunch as often 
as he could come, and let him do the ordering, 
and afterwards, as we smoked and drank 
our coffee, he would tell me all the things 
that their cook could do — and did — with 
a leg of mutton. The way he described how 
she piloted it through to the fourth day in the 
shape of mince was one of the most moving 
things 1 have ever heard, by Jove it was ! 

I personally came in for a good deal of 
quiet esteem for the way in which I stuck to 
him in his adversity. I don't think Eunice 
had thought much of me before, but now she 
seemed to feel that I had formed a corner in 
golden hearts. 

I took advantage of this to try and pave 
the way for a confession on poor old Archies 
part J 

k * I wonder, Archie, old top/' I said one 
evening after we had dined on mutton- hash 
and were sitting round trying to forget it, 
" I wonder you don't try another line in 
painting. I've heard that some of these 
fellows who draw for the comic papers " 

Mrs* Archie nipped me in the bud, 

(t How can you suggest such a thing, 
Mr, Pepper? A- man with Archie's genius ! 
I know the public is not educated up to his 
work, but it is only a question of time, 
Archie suffers, like all pioneers, from being 
ahead of his generation, But, thank Heaven, 

he need not sully his genius by stooping " 

■" No, no,". I said, '* Sorry, I only sug- 
gested it?' 

After that I gave more time than ever to 
trying to think of a solution. Sometimes 
I would lie awake at night, and my manner 
towards Wil her force, my man, became so 
distrait that it almost caused a rift. He asked 
me one morning which suit I would wear that 
day, and, by Jove, I said, M Oh, any of them. 
I don T t mind, ,T There was a most frightful 
silence, and I woke up to find him looking 
at me with such a dashed wounded expression 
in his eyes that I had to tip hkn a couple of 
quid to bring him round again. 

Well, you can't go on straining your brain 
like that for ever without something breaking 

Original from 



loose, and one night, just after I had gone to 
bed, I got it. Yes, by gad, absolutely got it. 
And I was so excited that I hopped out from 
under the blankets there and then, and rang 
up old Archie on the 'phone. 

" Archie, old scout," I said, " can the missis 
hear what I'm saying ? Well, then, don't say 
anything to give the show away. Keep on 
saying, * Yes ? Halloa ? ' so that you can 
tell her it was someone on the wrong wire. 
I've got it, my boy. All you've got to do to 
solve the whole problem is to tell her you've 
sold one of your pictures. Make the price 
as big as you like. Come and lunch with me 
to-morrow at the club, and we'll settle the 

There was a pause, and then Archie's voice 
said, " Halloa, halloa ? " It might have been 
a bit disappointing, only there was a tremble 
in it which made me understand how happy 
I had made the old boy. I went back to bed 
and slept like a king. 

Next day we lunched together, and fixed 
the thing up. I have never seen anyone so 
supremely braced. We examined the scheme 
from every angle, and there wasn't a flaw in it. 
The only difficulty was to hit on a plausible 
purchaser. Archie suggested me, but I 
couldn't see it. I said it would sound fishy. 
Eventually I had a brain-wave, and suggested 
J. Bellingwood Brackett, the American 
millionaire. He lives in London, and you 
see his name in the papers every day as having 
bought some painting or statue or something, 
so why shouldn't he buy Archie's " Coming 
of Summer " ? And Archie said, " Exactly — 
why shouldn't he ? And if he had had any 
sense in his fat head, he would have done it 
long ago, dash him ! " Which shows you 
that dear old Archie was bracing up, for I've 
heard him use much the same language in 
happier days about a referee. 

He went off, crammed to the eyebrows with 
good food and happiness, to tell Mrs. Archie 
that all was well, and that the old home was 
saved, and that Canterbury mutton might now 
be definitely considered as off the bill of fare. 

He told me on the 'phone that night that 
he had made the price two thousand pounds, 
because he needed the money, and what was 
two thousand to a man who had been fleecing 
the widow and the orphan for forty odd years 
without a break ? I thought the price was 
a bit high, but I agreed that J. Bellingwood 
could afford it. And happiness, as you might 
say, reigned supreme. 

Why is it that there is always a catch in 
these good things ? Fellows who know — 
detectives and people like that — will tell 

you that nine times out of ten a murderer 
will go and make some fat-headed bloomer 
which leads to his being caught on the hop. 
He either does something, or forgets to take 
something into his calculations, with the 
result that, bing ! he's copped. Putting up 
a game on anyone, even from the best motives, 
is rather like that. You think the whole 
thing over, and fancy that you've allowed for 
everything, and all the time you've forgotten 
to spot something that ought to have been 
absolutely obvious. 

What Archie and I forgot to allow for was 
the fact that this thing might get into the 

But, mind you, even if we had remembered 
about the papers, I doubt if we should have 
revised the scheme much. We should have 
taken it for granted that, if they mentioned 
it at all, they would just have given it five 
lines somewhere in the " Items of Interest " 
column, between the news of the birth of a 
five-legged kitten in Wales and the announce- 
ment of the hundred and first birthday of 
someone in a Bermondsey workhouse. 

Did they ? They did not ! They ran it 
on the middle page with illustrations and 

I don't know when I've had such a nasty 
jar as I got when Wilberforce brought me the 
paper in bed, and I languidly opened it and 
this jumped out and bit at me : — 



by Google 


Underneath there was a column, some of it 
about Archie, the rest about the picture ; and 
scattered over the page were two photographs 
of old Archie, looking more like Pa Doughnut 
than anything human, and a smudged repro- 
duction of " The Coming of Summer " ; and, 
believe me. frightful as the original of that 
weird exhibit looked, the reproduction had it 
licked to a whisper. It was one of the ghast- 
liest things I have ever seen. 

Well, after the first shock I recovered a bit. 
After all, it was fame for dear old Archie. As 
soon as I had had lunch I went down to the 
flat to congratulate him. 

He was sitting there with Mrs. Archie. 
He was looking a bit dazed, but she was 
simmering with joy. She welcomed me as 
the faithful friend. 

Original from 


] 5t 

Ck Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mr, Pepper, 
to think that dear Archie's genius has at last 
been recognized ? How quiet he kept it ! I 
had no idea that Mr. Brackett was even 
interested in his work. I wonder how he 
heard of it ? ? * 

1 Ohj these things get about/' I said, 
" You can't keep a good man down," 

1 Think of two thousand pounds for one 
picture — and the first he has ever sold ! " 

" What beats me/ J I said, *' is how the 
papers got hold of it." 

to do is to sit in your studio, while the police 
see that the waiting line of millionaires doesn't 
straggle over the pavement. They" 11 fight — " 
u What's that ? " said Archie, starting as 
if someone had dug a red-hot needle into his 

It was only a ring at the bell, followed by a 
voice asking if Mr. Ferguson was at horned 

11 Probably an interviewer/* said Mrs. 
Archie. tfc I suppose we shall get no peace 
for a long time to tome," 

The door opened, and the cook came in with 
a card. 

ifc * Renshaw Liggett/ " 
said Mrs. Archie, ll I don't 
know him. Do you, Archie ? 
It must be an interviewer. 
Ask him to come in, Julia." 
And in he came. 
My knowledge of chappies 
in general, after a fairly 
wide experience is that some 


% * I wonder 
who did the 
writing up/' I 

14 They would 
do that in 
the office, 
wouldn't they ? " said Mrs, Archie. 

* I suppose they would," I said ll They 
are wonders at that sort of thing." 

I couldn't help wishing that dear old Archie 
would enter into the spirit of the thing a little 
more and perk up, instead of sitting there 
looking like a cod-fish. The thing seemed to 
have stunned the poor chappie. He told me 
afterwards that even then he had a sense of 
impending doom. He said he had a pre- 
sentiment that there w T as more to come, and 
that Fate was just backing away and measur- 
ing the distance, preparatory to smiting him 
good and hard. 

II After this, Archie," I said, " all you have 


chappies seem to kind of convey an atmo- 
sphere of unpleasantness the moment you 
come into contact with them. I don't know 
what it is about them — maybe it's something 
in the way they work their eyebrows — but 
directly you see them you feel that you want 
to get down into the bomb-proof cellar and 
lock the door after you. 

Renshaw Liggett gave me this feeling 
directly he came in ; and when he fixed me 
with a sinister glance and said, il Mr. Fer- 
guson ? ,J I felt inclined to say lh Not guilty/' 
I backed a step or two and jerked my head 
towards Archie, and R ens haw turned the 
search-light off me and switched it on to him, 

Renshaw Liggett was one of those sharp- 
cornered fellows — the sort of fellow you felt 
would give you a nasty gash if you ran against 
him in the street. His face worked outwards 
to a point at the end of his no*e, like some 
kind of a bird. He had a sharp chin, and I 
didn't like the look of his eyes. Altogether 
having given him the swift once-over, I was 
deuced glad that it was Archie he w r anted to 
chat with and not me. 

" You are Mr, Archibald Ferguson, the 
artist ? ,T 

Archie nodded pallidly, and Renshaw 

by KjmQ 


■_■ r i uin d i 






nodded, as much as to say that you couldn't 
deceive him. He produced a sheet of paper, 
It was the middle page of the MaiL 

" You authorized the publication of this ? " 

Archie nodded again, 

4< I represent Mr* Bracket t, The publica- 
tion of this most impudent fiction has caused 
Mr. Brackett extreme annoyance> and, as it 
might also lead to other and more serious 
consequences, I must insist that a full denial 
be published without a moment's delay/' 

1 What do you mean ? " cried Mrs. Archie, 
" Are you mad ? M 

She had been standing, listening to the 
conversation in a sort of trance- Now she 
jumped into the fight with a vim that turned 
Renshaw's attention to her in a second. 

46 No, madam, I am not mad. Nor. despite 
the interested assertions of certain parties 
whom I need not specify by name, is Mr. 
Brackett. It may be news to you, Mrs. 
Fergus on, that an action is even now pending 
in New York, whereby certain parties are 
attempting to show that my client, Mr. 
Brackett, is non compos and should be legally 
restrained from exercising control over his 
property. Their case, qua case, is extremely 
weak, for even if we admit their contention 
that our client did, on the eighteenth of June 
last, attempt to walk up Fifth Avenue in his 


pyjamas, we shall be able to show that his 
action was the result of an election bet. 
But as the parties to whom I have alluded 
will undoubtedly snatch at every straw in 
their efforts to prove that Mr. Brackett is 
mentally infirm, the prejudicial effect of this 
publication cannot be over-estimated, Unless 
Mr. Brackett can clear himself of the stigma 
of having given two thousand pounds for 
this extraordinary production of an absolutely 
unknown artist, the strength of his case must 
be seriously shaken. I may add that my 
client's lavish patronage of Art is already one 
of the main planks in the platform of the 
parties already referred to. They adduce 
hU extremely generous expenditure in this 
direction as evidence that he is incapable 
of a prober handling of his money. I need 
scarcely point out with what sinister pleasure, 
therefore, they must have contemplated 

And he looked at " The Coming of Summer " 
as if it was a black-beetle, 

1 must say, much as I disliked the blighter. 
I couldn't help feeling that he had right on 
his side. It hadn't occutxed to me in quite 
that light before, but, considering it calmly 
now, I could see that a man w*ho would 
disgorge two thousand of the best o' goblins 
for Archie's Futurist masterpiece might very 




well step straight into the nut-factory, and 
no questions asked. 

Mrs. Archie came right back at him, as 
game as you please. 

" I am sorry for Mr. Brackett's domestic 
troubles, but my husband can prove without 
difficulty that he did buy the picture. Can't 
you, dear ? " 

Archie, extremely white about the gills, 
looked at the ceiling and at the floor and at 
me and Renshaw Liggett. 

" No/' he said, finally, " I can't. Because 
he didn't." 

" Exactly," said Renshaw, " and I must 
ask you to publish that statement in to- 
morrow's papers without fail." He rose, and 
made for the door. " My client has no objec- 
tion to young artists advertising themselves, 
realizing that this is an age of strenuous 
competition, but he firmly refuses to permit 
them to do it at his expense. Good after- 

And he legged it, leaving behind him one 
of the most chunky silences I have ever been 
mixed up in. For the life of me, I couldn't 
see who was to make the next remark. I was 
jolly certain that it wasn't going to be me. 

Eventually Mrs. Archie opened the pro- 

" What does it mean ? " 

Archie turned to me with a sort of frozen 

" Reggie, would you mind stepping into 
the kitchen and asking Julia for this week's 
Funny Slices ? I know she has it." 

He was right. She unearthed it from a 
cupboard. I trotted back with it to the 
sitting-room. Archie took the paper from 
me, and held it out to his wife. Doughnuts 
uppermost. - * 

" Look ! " he said. 

She looked. 

"I do them. I have done them every 
week for three years. No, don't speak yet. 
Listen. This is where all my money came 
from, all the money I lost when B. and 0. P. 
Rails went smash. And this is where the 
money came from to buy ' The Coming of 
Summer/ It wasn't Brackett who bought 
it ; it was myself." 

Mrs. Archie was devouring the Doughnuts 
with wide-open eyes. I caught a glimpse of 
them myself, and only just managed not to 
laugh, for it was the set of pictures where 
Pa Doughnut tries to fix the electric light, 
one of the very finest things dear old Archie had 
ever done. 

" I don't understand," she said. 

" 1 draw these things. I have sold my soul." 

Vol xlix.— 20. 

" Archie ! " 

He winced, but stuck to it bravely. 

" Yes, I knew how you would feel about it, 
and that was why I didn't dare to tell you, 
and why we fixed up this story about old 
Brackett. I couldn't bear to live on you 
any longer, and to see you roughing it here, 
when we might be having all the money we 

Suddenly, like a boiler exploding, she began 
to laugh. 

" They're the funniest things I ever saw 
in my life," she gurgled. " Mr. Pepper, do 
look ! He's trying to cut the electric wire 
with the scissors, and everything blazes up. 
And vou've been hiding this from me all this 
time ! " 

Archie goggled dumbly. She dived at a 
table, and picked up a magazine, pointing to 
one of the advertisement pages. 

" Read ! " she cried. " Read it aloud." 

And in a shaking voice Archie read : — 

You think you arc perfectly well, don't 
you ? You wake up in the morning and , 
spring out of bed and say to yourself that you 
have never been better in your life. You're 
wrong I Unless you are avoiding coffee as 
you would avoid the man who always tells 
you the smart things his little boy Said vested 
day, and drinking 

for breakfast, you cannot be 

It is a physical impossibility. Coffee contains 
an appreciable quantity of the deadly drug 
caffeine, and therefore 

" I wrote that/ 7 she said. " And I wrote 
the advertisement of the Spiller Baby Food 
on page ninety-four, and the one about the 
Pre-eminent Breakfast Sausage on page 
eighty-six. Oh, Archie, dear, the torments 
I have been through, fearing that you would 
some day find me out and despise me. I 
couldn't help it. I had no private means, 
and I didn't make enough out of my poetry 
to keep me in hats. I learned to write adver- 
tisements four years ago at a correspondence 
school, and I've been doing them ever since. 
And now I don't mind your knowing, now 
that you have told me this perfectly splendid 
news. Archie ! " 

She rushed into his arms like someone 
charging in for a bowl of soup at a railway- 
station buffet. And I drifted out. It seemed 
to me that this was a scene in which I was not 
on. I sidled to the door, and slid forth. 
They didn't notice me. My experience is that 
nobodv ever does — much. 


ow 1 

"Broke Into Print. 


Being the Pergonal Statements of certain Well-known Authors explaining 

wny tkey took to Literature as a Profession and how they first came to 

make a "Hit" with the Reading Puhlic. 



DOYLE, whose work in The 
Strand Magazine through a 
long series of years has given 
our readers more pleasurable 
excitement than that of any 
other writer, has already told 
the story of his first success, but it is one 
well worth re-telling. His first work* 
although it did not attain the glory of print, 
was done when he was six years old, and, as 
he recorded many years ago in the pages of 

the Idler y he has a very distinct recollection 
of the achievement. 

"It was written/' he recalled, " upon fools- 
cap paper, in what might be called a fine bold 
hand — four w T ords to the line; and was 
illustrated by marginal pen-and-ink sketches 
by the author. There was a man in it, and 
there wa,s a tiger, I forget which was the 
hero , but it didn't matter much, for they 
became blended into one about the time 
when the tiger met the man. I was a realist 
in the age of the Romanticists* 1 described 
at some length, both verbally and pictorially, 


, . u >ff* mmmmi <* ba*mu. Original from 





the untimely end of that wayfarer. But 
when the tiger had absorbed him, I found 
myself slightly embarrassed as to how my 
story was to go on. * It is very easy to get 
people into scrapes, and very hard to get 
them out again/ I remarked, and I have 
often had cause to repeat the precocious 
aphorism of my childhood. On this occasion 
the situation was beyond me, and my book, 
like my man, was engulfed in my tiger. 

" Then came the time when I was packed 
off to a public school, and in some way it was 
discovered by my playmates that I had more 
than my share of the lore that they hankered 
after. There was my dibut as a story-teller. 
On a wet half-holiday I have been elevated 
on to a desk, and with an audience of little 
boys all squatting on the floor, with their 
chins upon their hands, I have talked myself 
husky over the misfortunes of my heroes. 
yfttk in and week out those unhappy men 
have battled and striven and groaned for the 
amusement of that little circle. I was 
bribed with pastry to continue these efforts, 
and I remember that I always stipulated for 
tarts down and strict business, which shows 
that I was born to be a member of the Authors' 

" It may be that my literary experiences 
would have ended there had there not come 
a time in my early manhood when that good 
old harsh-faced schoolmistress, Hard Times, 
took me by the hand. I wrote, and with 
amazement I found that my writing was 
accepted. Chambers's Journal it was which 
rose to the occasion, and I have had a kindly 
feeling for its mustard-coloured back ever 
since. Fifty little cylinders of manuscript 
did I send out during eight years, which 
described irregular orbits among publishers, 
and usually came back like paper boomerangs 
to the place that they had started from. 
Yet in time they all lodged somewhere or 
other. I have heard folk talk as though 
there were some hidden back-door by which 
one may creep into literature, but I can say 
myself that I never had an introduction to 
any editor or publisher before doing business 
with them, and that I do not think that I 
suffered on that account. Yet my apprentice- 
ship was a long and trying one. During ten 
years of hard work I averaged less than fifty 
pounds a year from my pen. 

" J>ome little time later, in the intervals of 
my medical practice, I wrote * Micah Clarke.' 
A year's reading and five months' writing 
finished it, and I thought I had a tool in my 
hands that would cut a path for me. So I 
had, but the first thing that I cut with it was 

Digitized by V^OOgle 

my finger. I sent the MS. to a friend, whose 
opinion I respected, in London, who read for 
one of the leading houses, but he had been 
bitten by the historical novel, and, very 
naturally, he distrusted it. From him it 
went to house after house, and house after 
house would have none of it. Blackwood 
found that the people did not talk so in the 
seventeenth century ; Bentley tfiat its 
principal defect was that there was a complete 
absence of interest ; Cassells that experience 
had shown that an historical novel could never 
be a commercial success. I remember 
smoking over my dog-eared manuscript when 
it returned for a whiff of country air after 
one of its descents upon town, and wondering 
what I should do if some sporting, reckless 
kind of publisher were suddenly to stride in 
and make me a bid of forty shillings or so for 
the lot. And then, suddenly, I bethought me 
to send it to Messrs. Longmans, where it was 
fortunate enough to fall into the hands of 
Mr. Andrew Lang. From that day the way 
was smoothed to it, and, as things turned out, 
I was spared that keenest sting of ill-success, 
that those who had believed in your work 
should suffer pecuniarily for their belief. A 
door had been opened for me into the temple 
of the Muses, and it only remained that I 
should find something that was worthy of 
being borne through it." 


The popular author of " Just a Girl," 
" Where Love Leads," and many other 
novels which have gained him a world-wide 
circle of readers, sends us the following 
interesting contribution : — 

" Strangely enough, I ' broke into print ' 
with poetry — Heaven save the mark ! — and, 
still more strangely, I was paid for my first 
production. It was a set of words for a song, 
written by an extremely popular composer. 
For some time I got quite nice little sums for 
writing words for music ; only the other day 
I found, in an old portfolio, one or two old 
songs to which I had written the words ; they 
were very bad — the words, I mean. My first 
attempt at fiction was a short story, written 
when I was a boy of nineteen. It appeared 
in a popular periodical and I received the 
large sum of seventeen shillings and sixpence 
for it. I suppose I must have written half- 
a-dozen short stories before I tried my hand 
at a long novel. This was written before I 
was twenty, ran through the same popular 
magazine, and had the honour of appearing 
in three-volume form. The three-decker was 
beginning to go out of fashion at that time, 





}■ Tv>u a 1 %.;--u •■•■.'''■ . 

and this early novel was the 
only one of mine published 
in that somewhat inconveni- 
ent, but by no means un- 
profitable, form* 

" I ought to mention that, 
soon after I * began author/ 
by writing words for music, 
I took on rather a singular 
job. The proprietor of a 
couple of weekly periodicals 
of the goody-goody kind 
took a trip to Germany, and 
while there purchased a 
number of blocks. Of these 
he gave me some ' pulls/ 
requesting me to write up 
the picture^ which were not 
at all had illustrations of 
ruined abbeys, castles, and 
so on. I was to get ten and 
sixpence an article— say, of 
four thousand words — and^t 
first sight it looked to me, 
in my Iamb - like innocence 
and youthful enthusiasm for 
any kind of literary work at 
any kind of price, an easy 

job ; but I found that few of the pictures 
had names to them, and I had to go to the 
British Museum and try to hunt them up* 
It was a terrible business, and I nearly drove 
the dear good man who was then superin- 
tendent in the Rotunda stark, staring mad ; 
because he was too conscientious and warm- 
hearted a fellow to brush aside a youth or 
refuse to help him. We found two or three 
of the originals of the blocks, and it was a 
young lady reader, seated at the next desk to 
me, who suggested — the Eve ! — that I should 
invent titles — and histories— for the rest* 

u By the way, I have told this story in one 
of my novels j a recent one ; but I've an idea 
it's funny enough to repeat here." 


The authoress of " Mrs. Wiggs of the 
Cabbage Patch ,5 — Mrs. Alice Hegan Rice — 
has reached a very large public, not only 
through her novels, but also by way of the 
stage, where, ever since their dramatization, 
w Mrs, Wiggs " and " Lovey Mary " may 
always be counted upon to draw big crowds 
of admirers. Mrs. Rice " broke into print" 
long before the creation of the adorable Mrs, 
Wiggs, and it came about in rather an amusing 





■MAKY. ■ .- 



1 I.i iV I V 





way, u It happened when I was a school- 
girl/' writes Mrs, Rice. " I had been reading 
* Reveries of a Bachelor/ and, like many 
another girl of that day, fell a victim to 
Marvel's charm* So 
impressed was I with 
his sage reflections 
upon love that I was 
moved to write an 
article on the same 
theme from a feminine 
standpoint, I called 
it 'Reveries of a 
Spinster/ and handed 
it in as a school theme. 
It was com mended j 
and someone sug- 
gested that 1 send it 
to a local newspaper. 

" Being inexperi- 
enced in .sulmiittiiii: 
manuscripts, I sent it 
in unsigned and with 
no return address. To 
the great delight of 
myself and my school- 
mates it was not only 
printed but answered 
again and again. Old maids and married 
women kept the controversy going for weeks, 
the former valiantly 
defending the writer 
and the latter in- 
dulging in scathing 
criticism of the 
seventeen - year - old 
spinster, who was 
of being embittered 
by some desperate 

"It was many 
years later that my 
first book, * Mrs. 
Wiggs of the Cab- 
bage Patch/ was 
publishedj and since 
t li e n six other 
volumes have ap- 
peared, but not one 
has had a more unex- 
pected and amusing 
reception than that 
first modest literary 

inimitable Night Watchman, Bob Pretty, 
Sam Small, Ginger Dick, and a host of other 
characters whose sayings and doings he has 
chronicled for the delight of Strand readers, 

writes us follows : — 

"My first contribu- 
tion was printed in an 
amateur magazine 
when I was about 
twenty, and for the 
next few years I was 
an irregular con- 
tributor to various 
papers , The irr egu - 
lanty was the fault 
of the editors , who left 
no stone unturned in 
their endeavours to 
induce me to take up 
some more useful work 
in my spare time. 
Then Mr, Jerome K. 
Jerome pu Wished my 
stories of long-shore 
life in To-Day and the 
Idler } and they were 
a ft er wards pu bl ished 
in book-form under 
the title of * Many Cargoes/ Considering that 
my first efforts were printed in an amateur 

magazine I don't 
think that the term 
* breaking into print J 
applies to me — 
1 crawling into print J 
would, perhaps, be 
nearer the mark/ 1 

J* J. BELL. 
Mr. J. J. Bell, 

whose Wee Mac- 

•nil-: mark* 


( hrist- 


Mr. W.W.Jacobs, 

the creator of the 

J. f, BELL, 




f rum a Urawinff bi/ A . H. HvsftL 



Original from 

ina/'and many other 
delightful types of 
Scottish character 
have charmed us all, 
says : — 

M I was quite old 
— t went y-f our — 
when I began to 
write* I think my 
first printed effort 
was an ' Ode to a 
Sausage/ which ap- 
peared intheGlasgow 
University Magazine 
— gratis, of course. 
Then I sent forth 
four poems (serious) 



to the Pall Mall Magazine, Chambers's 
Journal, Pearson s Magazine , and the Sketch. 
They were all accepted ! Then I sent out 
six others. They were all returned. And 
so on. . . , The first chapter of 4 Wee 
Macgreegor' was 
written in desperation 
to fill a column which 
I s u pp 1 i e d to the 
Glasgow Evening 
Times every Friday. 
People seemed to like 
it, and 1 wrote some 
more. A dozen 
sketches accumu- 
lated ; a little volume 
seemed a possibility. 
Only no one wanted 
to publish it. Eventu- 
ally I took the risk 
involved in the pro- 
duction of three 
thousand copies — a 
fearsome number! 
but there was a saving 
in taking a quantity. 
Then I got married, 
and, three weeks 
later, the little book 
was published, And 
that's all" 


Mr. Jeffery F&rnol 

— whose "Broad 
Highway " has de- 
lighted hundreds or 
thousands of readers 

— finds it easier to 
received for his first 




Phatu. Elliutt *& Fry. 


the amount he 
than the story 

itself* " So far as I can remember after the 
lapse of nearly twenty years/* he says, " my 
first story was entitled l Jones, A.B.,' and 
was published in an English weekly magazine 
called Short Stories* 

1 This masterpiece contained, if my memory 
serves, about two thousand words* and 
brought me a cheque for the magnificent sum 
of one guinea. It was a very welcome guinea 
—the very first yellow sovereign one earns 
always has, I should think, an especial value 
— and some of the sentimental members of 
my family circle were disposed to advise 
having a hole bored in it and wearing it 
suspended round my neck. But, alas ! it 
was too valuable to be used as a mere 

* Well, good luck to it ! I hope the present 

possessor of that bright particular sovereign 
is made as happy by it as I was, I fear your 
readers will think this has more to do with my 
first sovereign than my first story, but the 
two are so intimately associated in my 

memory that I find 
it difficult to recall 
the crudities and 
faults of the one 
without a pleasant 
recollection of the 
charms of the other — 
during the brief time 
of its sojourn with 


From Mr, Pett 
Ridge, so well known 
to our readers for his 
humorous stories of 
London life and 
character, we have 
received the following 
most interesting 
chapter of auto- 
biography : — 

t( A fellow - student 
at the Birkbeck (then 
a rabbit - warren of 
small class - rooms in 
Southampton Bui Id- 
ings, Chancery Lane) 
made the announce- 
ment that he had 
submitted a turn-over 
article to the Globe. 
This was j in itself, a 
painful circumstance ; 
the situation became intolerable when he 
was able later to show the contribution in 
print, and to exhibit the cheque for one 
guinea that represented payment. My own 
first twenty-one shillings came from the Globe 
a few weeks afterwards. 

u The earliest sketch of London life that 
I wrote was called * A Dinner in Soho/ and I 
sent it to the Si. James's Gazette, of which 
journal Sidney Low was the editor. I was, 
at the time, chief clerk in a Continental 
office in the City, and I never shall forget the 
day when, hurrying along Cannon Street to 
lunch, I caught sight of the title on the 
St. James's placard ; excepting in my dreams 
I have rarely found a moment of success 
equal to this. Sidney Low being the wisest 
and friendliest editor a young penman could 
have encountered, I took advantage of the 
fact bv forwarding sketches weekly, and by 




sending him also stories, typewritten and 
under a pen-name — because I (eared In; 
might suspect I had an intention of writing 
the whole of the journal— and dispatched 
from a town address. I remember that on 
one great Saturday* evening, the St. James's 
had a sketch initialled ' W, P. R./ and a 
story signed by my pseudonym of ' Warwick 
Simpson/ The same double event frequently 
took place in a Manchester paper. I have 
still in my possession a letter from the editor 
of that journal replying to an application for 
increased payment for the stories which were 
appearing over my own name : ( When you 
can send us stuff as good as that contributed 
to our columns by Mr. Warwick Simpson — 
stories which you have, doubtless t noticed 
and read — we shall be prepared to reconsider 
your request.' 

u Being a bachelor ? and, fairly youthful, my 
first novel dealt with the problems of married 
life, and how to solve them* It was called 
* A Clever Wife/ and it went to 
half-a - dozen publishers ; Mr. 
Heinemann thought so little of 
it (and I am sure he was right) 
that he sent back to me, in 
its place, a dashing novel by 
a lady member of the 
aristocracy. When the 
error had been corrected 
I packed the scrip 
afresh and sent it 
to Bentley's* In 
a fortnight's time 
the parcel re- 
turned; with it a 
letter of several 
sheets j writ ten by 
Mr Bentleyinhis 
own hand* # The 
early pages were 

devoted to the task of pointing out de- 
fects in the novels and I remember I 
was becoming aggrieved by the elaborate 
manner, when I came to the last paragraph : 
* If you can see your way to making the 
alterations suggested, I shall be happy 
to publish the novel/ The firm gave up 
work shortly afterwards ; it is only fair to 
say that the amount paid to me for royalties 
could scarcely have been a factor in hastening 
the end. Harper published the book in 
America, but the occurrence did not make 
the sensation there that a new civil war 
would have created. I recall, however, the 
great kindness of Mr. W. D, Howells in this 
connection, and his generous appreciation 
during later days, It is not his fault, but 
mine, that remittances which come to me 
from New York sometimes fail to equal the 
amount of my tobacconist's bill, 

11 Take it altogether, it is a fine life, and a 
jolly one. I have been writing now for a 
good many years, and to be candid, 
I prefer the work to the alternative, 
usually offered j of sweeping a 
crossing. If I am asked to give 
advice to anyone about to * break 
into print/ my counsel to the 
'prentice hand (offered, I 
hope t without presumption) 
will be to stay in an office, 
or other regular 
occupation, until 
he feels he can well 
afford to leave. 
In my own case, 
I wrote half-a- 
dozen novels be- 
fore I took off 
paper cuffs and 
said good-bve to 
the City." 




Fnmi a Fhutoffraph. 

by Google 

Original from 

^ — l ,/ 



FEW friends of Murgatroyd, 
the physician, sat about his 
dinner-table 3 discussing that 
perplexing question, " How 
much of the truth should a 
doctor tell ? " In the middle 
of the discussion a quiet 
voice spoke up from a corner, and all turned 
towards a middle-aged man of European 
reputation who sat fingering the stem of his 

"It is dangerous to lay down a general 
rule/' said Sir James Kelsey. " But I should 
say, if you want to keep a secret tell half 
the truth- People accept it and pass on to 
their own affairs. 1 ' He hesitated for a 
moment and continued, rather slowly ; "I 
am thinking of a tremendous secret w T hich 
has been kept that way for a good number of 
years, I call it the story of the Violet Book/' 

At once the discussion ceased. It was so 
seldom that Kelsey indulged in anything 
like a confidence. Now on this one evening 
amongst his brethren it seemed he was in the 
mood to talk. 

41 AH of you will remember the name of 
John Rymer, and some of you his meteoric 
career and the tragic circumstances of his 
death. There was no doubt that he was a 
master of surgery. Yet at the age of thirty- 
seven, at eleven o'clock on a July morning, 
after performing three operations with all his 
accustomed skill, he walked into his consulting- 
room and blew his brains out." 

Here and there a voice was raised. 

" Yes, I remember." 

*' It was overwork, I think.' 1 

Sir James Kelsev smiled. 

"Exactly;' he 'said, "That's the half- 
truth. Overwork there was, I am familiar 
with the details of the inquest, for I married 
John Rymer's niece. It was proved, for 

Copyright, tt>t$+ by 

instance, that during the last week of his 
life he had been curtailing his operations and 
spending more time over his dressings — a 
definite policy of his when the strain became 
too heavy. Moreover, there was some men- 
tion made of a sudden reasonless fear which 
had attacked him, a fear that his practice 
was dropping away, and that he would be 
left with a wife and young family to support 
and no means to do it with. Well, we all 
know round this table that that particular 
terror is one of the commonest results of over- 
work. So overwork there undoubtedly was. 
A spell of tropical heat no doubt, too, had 
its effect. Anyway, here was enough for a 
quite acceptable verdict, and so the world 
thought. The usual platitudes about the 
tension of modern life made their appearance. 
The public read 3 accepted, and passed on to 
its own affairs. But behind John Rymer s 
death there lay a treipendous secret." 

Once more he hesitated. Then he took a 
cigar from the box which his host held out 
to him, and said, in a kind of rush : * l No 
one could make any use of it now, For there's 
no longer any evidence but my word, and 1 
should deny it* It's overwork John Rymer 
died of. Let us not forget it/ 1 

And then he told the story of the Violet 
Hook. At the end of it his cigar was still 
alight, for he smoked while he talked. But it 
was the only cigar ahght in that room* 

I was twenty- five , and I had bought a 
practice at Chailsey, a village deep amongst 
tall, dark trees in the very heart of the 
Berkshire Downs, You'll hardly find a place 
more pastoral and remote in all that country 
of remote villages. But a couple of training 
stables were established there, and, what 
with kirks and jumping aaidents h there was 
a good deal ol work at times. I quite liked 




the spot, and I liked it still more when 
Bradley Rymer and his daughter took the 
big house on the slope of the Down above 
the village. 

It was about eight months after John 
Rymer' s death that his brother came there, a 
shortish, broad man of forty-five with a big, 
pleasant face. Gossip had it that he had been 
very poor, so poor, indeed, that his daughter 
had made her living at a typewriting machine. 
There was no doubt, however, that he was 
rich now. " Canada's the country," he used 
to say. " I made my money out of Canadian 
land/' and when he fell into conversation of 
a morning with any of the stable-boys on the 
gallops he was always urging them to better 
themselves in that country. 

His daughter Violet — a good many of you 
know her as my wife — had little of his fore- 
gathering disposition. She was an extremely 
pretty, slim girl of nineteen, with fair hair 
and big eyes which matched her name. But 
she held herself apart. She seldom came down 
into the village, and even when one met her 
in her own house there was a constraint in 
her manner and a look in her eyes which I 
was at a loss to understand. It wasn't merely 
trouble. It was a kind of perplexity, as though 
she did not know where to turn. For the 
rest, the couple did not entertain. 

" We have had hard lives," Bradley Rymer 
said to me one rare evening when I dined 
there, " and a year or two of quiet is what we 
want beyond everything." And never did 
man speak a truer word. 

Bradley Rymer had lived for three months 
at Chailsey when Queen Victoria died, and all 
the great kings and the little kings flocked 
from Europe to her funeral. We at Chailsey 
— like the rest of Great Britain — determined 
to set up a memorial, and a committee of 
five was appointed to determine the form 
it was to take. 

" It must be a drinking-fountain," said I. 

" No ; a stained-glass window," the vicar 
interrupted ; and there we were, Grayly the 
trainer and I on one side, the vicar and 
Hollams the grocer on the other. The fifth 
member of the committee was absent. 

" Well, I shall go up and see Mr. Bradley 
Rymer this afternoon," I said. " He has 
the casting vote." 

" You may do just as you please," said the 
vicar, with some acerbity — Bradley Rymer 
did not go to church ; " but until Mr. 
Bradley Rymer condescends to be present at 
our committee meetings, I shall pay not the 
slightest attention to his opinion." 

Thereupon the committee broke up. I 

VoL xlix-— 21, 

had a good many visits to pay to patients, 
and it was close upon eight o'clock when I 
set out upon my journey, and darker than it 
usually is at that time of the year. Bradley 
Rymer, I knew, did not dine until late, and 
I hoped to catch him just before he and 
Violet sat down. 

The house stood a good half-mile from the 
village, even by the short cut which I took 
up the side of the Down. It was a big, 
square Georgian house with rows of high, 
flat windows ; a large garden of lawns and 
flowers and beech trees surrounded it, and 
the whole property was enclosed in high 
red-brick walls. I was kept for a little while 
at the great wrought-iron gates. That 
always happened. You rang the big bell, 
the corner of a white curtain was cautiously 
lifted in the window of the lodge, you were 
inspected, and at last the gates swung open. 
Berkshire people were slow in those days, 
and, like most country-folk, curious. I 
walked up the drive to the house. The front 
door stood open. I rang the bcit A big 
mastiff came out from the hall and sniffed 
at me. But we were good friends, and he 
retired again to the corner. Finally a maid- 
servant appeared. It was perhaps a curious 
fact that Bradley Rymer had no man-servant 
living in the house. 

" A butler is a spy you set upon yourself," 
he once said to me. Another case of the 
half-truth, you see. I accepted it and passed 
on to my own affairs. So when only a maid 
answered the bell I was not surprised. 

" Can I see Mr. Rymer ? " I asked. 

" He is in the library, I think, sir," she 

" Very well. I know my way." And, 
putting down my hat, I climbed the stairs. 

The library was a long, comfortably- 
furnished room upon the first floor, lighted 
by a row of windows upon one side-and lined 
to the ceiling with bookshelves upon the 
other. Rymer had a wonderful collection of 
books bound in vellum and calf, but he had 
bought the lot at a sale, and I don't think 
he ever read one of them. However, he liked 
the room, and it was the one which.he usually 

I opened the door and went into the 
library. But the servant had been mistaken. 
The library was empty. I waited, however, 
and while I waited a noise in the next room 
attracted my attention. I don't think that I 
was conscious of it at first, for when I did 
notice it, it seemed to me that the room had 
perceptibly darkened. It was so familiar a 
noise, too, that one wouldn't notice it unless 




there were some special unsuitability of time 
and place to provoke one's curiosity. For a 
busy man walks through life to the sound 
of it. It was the sharp tack-tack-tack of a 
typewriting machine, with the little clang 
and break when the end of a line is reached. 
I listened to it first of all surprised at the 
relentless rapidity with which the machine 
was worked, and then wondering why at 
this hour, in this house of leisure and wealth, 
so tremendous an assiduity was being em- 
ployed. Then in a rush the gossip of the 
village came back to me. Violet Rymer, in 
the days of her father's poverty, had made 
her living in a typewriting office. Yes ; but 
why should she continue so monotonous a 
practice now ? I couldn't think that she, 
if it was she, was keeping up her proficiency 
for amusement. You can always tell whether 
the typist is interested or whether she is 
working against time from the sound of the 
machine. In the former case it becomes 
alive, one is conscious of a personality ; in 
the latter one thinks of an absent-minded 
clergyman gabbling through the Lessons in 

Well, it was just that last note which was 
being struck. The machine was racing to 
the end of a wearisome task, and, since already 
Violet Rymer was very much to me, I thought 
of her bending over the keys with a real dis- 
comfort. Moreover, I seemed to be stumbling 
upon a secret which I was not meant to know. 
Was this tack-tack-tack-ing the explanation 
of why Chailsey saw so little of her ? 

While I was asking myself this question a 
door opened and shut violently. It was the 
door into that next room, and as it was banged 
the typewriting ceased altogether. There was 
a moment's pause, and then a voice was raised 
in passion. It was Bradley Rymer's voice, 
but I hardly recognized it. 

" What is it now ? " he cried, bitterly. 
" A novel, a volume of sermons, a pam- 
phlet ? Am I never to see you, Violet ? 
You remain hidden in this room, breaking your 
back for sixpence an hour. Why, I bought 
this house for you. My one aim was to get 
rich for you." And the girl interrupted him 
with an agonized cry. 

" Oh, don't say that, father ! " 

" But I do say it." And suddenly his 
voice softened. " It's true, Vi. You know 
it's true. The one thing I hated was that 
you should lose all the fun of your youth 
at that grinding w r ork. And now you're 
still at it. Why? Why?" 

And through the door came her voice, 
Lssionate, broken reply : — 

in a 

" Because — because — I feel — that not even 
the satin slippers I am wearing really belong 
to me." 

The dispute suddenly ceased. A third voice 
spoke so low that I could not hear the words, 
but I heard Bradley Rymer's startled reply. 

" In the library ? " 

I had just time to get away into the farthest 
window before he entered the room. It was 
almost dark now, and he peered about in 
search of me. I moved from the window 
towards him. 

" Oh, you are there, Kelsey," he said, 
suavely. " We'll have a light. It's so con- 
foundedly dark that I can hardly see you." 

He rang a bell and a lamp was brought, 
which he took from the hands of the servant 
and set down on the corner of his writing- 
table between us. 

" How long have you been here ? " he asked, 
and — I can't account for it — he stood facing 
me in his dinner-jacket, with his usual 
pleasant, friendly smile ; but I suddenly 
became quite sure that he was dangerous. 
Yes, that's the word — dangerous. 

" Just a minute or so," I answered, as 
indifferently as I could, and then, with a 
strangely swift movement, he crossed the 
room again to the^fireplace and rang the bell. 

" Will you tell Miss Violet that Dr. Kelsey 
is here ? " he said to the parlourmaid, as soon 
as she appeared. " You will find her in the 
next room." 

He came softly back and seated himself 
at the writing-table. 

" And why do you want to see me?" he 
asked, in a queer voice. 

I spoke about the memorial, and he 
answered at random. He was listening, but 
he was not listening to me. In a sort of 
abstraction he drew open a drawer in his 
writing-table on a level with his hand, and 
every now and then he shut it, and every now 
and then he drew it open again. 

I cannot hope to make you realize the 
uncanny feeling of discomfort which crept 
over me. Most of us at this table, I imagine, 
have some knowledge of photography and 
its processes. We have placed a gas-light 
paper in the developing-dish, and seen the 
face of our portrait flash out in a second on 
the white surface. I can never get accus- 
tomed to it. I can never quite look upon it 
as not a miracle. Well, just that miracle 
seemed to me to be happening now. Bradley 
Rymer suddenly became visible to me, a 
rogue, a murderous rogue, and I watched with 
an increasing fear that drawer in his table. 
I waited for iiis hand to slio into it. 



1 6' 





But while I waited the door of the next 
room was opened, and Rymer and I both 
ceased to talk. We pretended no more. We 
listened, and, although we heard voices, we could 
not distinguish words. Both Violet and the 
servant were speaking in their ordinary tones. 
An expression of immense relief shone upon 
Bradley Rymer' s face for a moment, and he 
rose up with the smile and the friendliness I 

" Will you stay to dinner ? " he asked. 
" Do ! " But I dared not. I should have 
betrayed the trouble I was in. I made a 
lame excuse and left the house. 

It was now quite dark, and in the cool night 
air I began, before I had reached the lodge, to 
wonder whether I had not been misled alto- 
gether by some hallucination. Bradley Rymer 
brought back to my memory the tragic case 
of his brother, and I asked myself for a 
moment if the long and late hours of a country 
practice were unbalancing me. But I looked 
back towards the house as I took the track 
over the turf, and the scene through which 
I had passed came back too vividly to leave 
me in any doubt. I could see Bradley Rymer 
clearly as he opened and shut the drawer of 
his writing-table. I could hear his voice 
raised in bitter reproach to Violet and the 
click of the typewriting machine. No, I 
had not been dreaming. 

I had walked about a hundred yards 
down the slope when a sharp whistle of two 
notes sounded a little way off upon my 
right, and almost before I had stopped a 
man sprang from the grass at my very feet 
with a guttural cry like a man awakened 
from a doze. Had I taken another step I 
should have trodden upon him. The next 
moment the light from an electric torch flashe.d 
upon my face, blinding me. I stepped back 
and put up my hand to my eyes. But even 
while I raised my hand the button of the 
torch was released and the light went out. 
I stood for a moment in utter blackness, then 
dimly I became aware of someone moving 
away from in front of me. 

14 What do you want ? " I cried. 

44 Nothing," was the word spoken in answer. 

I should have put the fellow down for one 

of the gipsies who infest those Downs in the 

summer, and thought no more about him, but 

for one reason. He had spoken with a 

pronounced German accent. Besides, there 

was the warning whistle, the flash of the 

torch. I could not resist the conviction that 

Bradley Rymer* s house was being watched. 

I walked on without quickening my pace. 

Then I ran, and as fast as I could, down to 

the village. I did not stop to reason things 
out. I was in a panic. Violet was in that 
house, and it was being watched by strangers. 
We had one policeman in the village, and he 
not the brainiest of men. I got out my 
bicycle and rode fourteen miles, walking up the 
hills and coasting down them until I reached 
the town of Reading. I rode to the house of 
the Chief Constable,whom I happened to know. 
44 Is Captain Bowyer in ? " 1 asked of the 

44 No, sir ; he's dining out to-night." 

44 In the town ? " 

44 Yes, sir." 

I was white with dust and wet through 
with sweat. The girl looked me over and 
said : — 

44 1 have orders to telephone for hirn if he 
is wanted." 

" He is," I replied, and she went off to the 
telephone at once. 

I began to cool down in more ways than 
one while I waited. It seemed to me very 
likely that I had come upon a fool's errand. 
After all, what had I got to go upon but a 
German accent, a low, sharp whistle, and an 
electric torch ? I waited about half an hour 
before Bowyer came in. He was a big man, 
with a strong face and a fair moustache, 
capable, but not imaginative ; and I began 
my story with a good deal of diffidence. But 
I had not got far before his face became 
serious, though he said not a word until I had 

" Bradley Rymer' s house," he then re- 
marked. 44 I know it." He went out into 
the passage, and I heard his voice at the 
telephone. He came back in a moment. 

44 I have sent for some men," he said, 44 and 
a car. Will you wait here while I change ? " 

" Yes." 

I glanced at the clock. For now that he 
took the affair seriously all my fears had 

44 What time did you leave the house ? " 
he asked. 

" Nine." 

4t And it's now eleven. Yes, we must 
hurry. Bradley Rymer' s house ! So that's 
where they arc." 

He hurried away. But before he had 
changed his clothes a great touring motor-car 
whirred and stopped in front of the door. 
When we went out on to the steps of the 
house there were four constables waiting. 
We climbed into the car, and the hilly road 
to Streatley, which had taken me so long and 
painful a time to toverse, now rose and fell the broad wheefc like the waves of a 



sea. At Streatley we turned uphill along the 
Aldworth Road, and felt the fresh, wind of the 
downland upon our faces. Then for the 
first time upon the journey I spoke. 

" You know these men ? " I asked of 
Captain Bowyer. 

" I know of them/! he answered, and he 
bent forwards to me. " With all these kings 
and emperors in London for the funeral, of 
course a great many precautions were taken 
on the Continent. All the known Anarchists 
were marked down ; most of them on some 
excuse or another were arrested. But three 
slipped through the net and reached England." 

" But they would be in London/' I urged. 

" So you would think. We were warned 
to-day, however, that they had been traced 
into Berkshire and there lost sight of." 

A hundred questions rose to my lips, but 
I did not put them. We were all in the dark 

" That's the house/' I said at length, and 
Captain Bowyer touched the chauffeur on the 

" We'll stop, then, by the road." 

Very quietly we got out of the car and crept 
up the hill. The night was dark ; only here 
and there in a chink of the clouds a star shone 
feebly. Down in the village a dog barked and 
the wind whistled amongst the grasses under 
our feet. We met no one. The lodge at the 
gates was dark ; we could not see the house 
itself, but a glare striking upon the Higher 
branches of the trees in the garden showed 
that a room was brightly lit. 

" Do you know which room that is ? " 
Bowyer asked of me in a whisper. 

44 The library." 

We spread out then and made a circuit of 
the garden wall. There was no one any 
longer watching, and we heard no whistle. 
" They have gone," I said to Bowyer. 

" Or they are inside," he replied, and as he 
spoke we heard feet brushing upon the grass 
and a constable loomed up in front of us. 

" This way, sir," he whispered. " They 
are inside." 

We followed him up the hill and round to 
the back of the garden. Just about the middle 
of that back wall the men stood in a cluster. 
We joined them, and saw that an upright 
ladder rose to the parapet. On the other side 
of the wall a thick coppice of trees grew, dark 
and high. Without a word, one after another 
we mounted the ladder and let ourselves 
down by the trees into the garden. A few 
paces took us to the edge of the coppice, and 
the house stood in the open before us. Stand- 
ing in the shadow of the branches, we looked 

up. The house was in complete darkness 
but for the long row of library windows upon 
the first floor. In these, however, the cur- 
tains were not drawn, andt the light blazed out 
upon the green foliage. There was no sound, 
no sign of any disorder. Once more I began 
to think that I had brought Bowyer and his 
men here upon a fool's errand. I said as 
much to him in a whisper. 

" But the ladder ? " he answered ; and 
even while he spoke there appeared at one 
of these windows a stranger. It was as much 
as I could do in that awful moment to with- 
hold a cry. I gripped Bowyer's arm with so 
much violence that he could show me the 
bruises of my fingers a week afterwards. But 
he stood like a rock now. 

" Is that Rymer ? " 

" No. I have never seen him in mv life 

He was a dark man, and his hair and mous- 
tache were turning grey. He had the look of 
a foreigner, and he lounged at the window with 
as much assurance as if he owned the place. 
Then he turned his face towards the room with 
a smile, and, as if in obedience to an order, 
carelessly drew down the blinds. 

They were in the house, then — these men 
who had slipped through the net of the 
Continental police ; and there was no sound. 
They were in peaceful possession. My heart 
fainted within me when I thought of Violet 
Rymer and her father. 

Bowyer made a sign, and, stepping care- 
fully on the turf border and keeping within 
the shadow of the trees, we crept round to the 
back of the house. One of the party ran 
swiftly and silently across a gravel path to the 
house-wall and followed it for a little way. 
Then as swiftly he came back. 

" Yes, there's a window open," he said. 
We crossed to it. It yawned upon black 
emptiness. We listened ; not a sound reached 

" What does it give on to ? " asked Bowyer. 

44 A passage. At the end of the passage 
there's a swing door. Beyond the swing 
door the hall." 

We climbed in through the window. 

44 There should be a mastiff in the hall," I 

44 Oh ! " and Bowyer came to a stop. 4< Do 
you think Rymer expected these men ? " he 
asked. I had begun to ask myself that 
question already. It was clear the dog had not 
given any alarm. But we found out the 
reason when we crept into the hall. He was 
lying dead upon the stone floor, with a piece 

° ,mma 'WaFMICHISAN 

. 1 


€: Quick P* whispered Buwycr,and 1 led the 
way up t he great staircase* At the head of it at 
last we heard voices, and stopped, holding our 
breath. A few words spoken in a foreign accent 
detached themselves from the general murmur, 

"Where is it? You won't say I Very 
well, then ! " A muffled groan followed the 
words, and once more the voice spoke. 
•* Wait, Adolf ! Behind the books ? There ? 
Hiphcr! There!" And with that Bowyer 
burst into the room with his men behind him- 
He held a revolver in his hand. 

u 1 shall shoot the first man who moves/ 1 
he said ; and no one did move. They stood 
like wax figures moulded in an attitude for 


ever* Imagine, if you can, the scene which 
confronted me ! On the library ladder, with 
a hand thrust behind the books on one of 
the highest shelves, was mounted one of the 
three foreigners. A second— he whom we 
had seen at the window — stood over a chair 
into which Bradley Rymer was strapped with 
a gag over his mouth. The third supported 
Violet. She was standing in the middle of 
the room, with her hands tied behind her and 
a rope in a noose about her neck. The end 
of the rope had been passed through a big ring 
in the ceiling which had once carried a lamp. 
I sprang towards herj cast off the noose, and 

she toatiti^nfflmmmf*™ 



At the back of the shelf we found a slim 
little book of violet morocco with a broken 

At this point in Sir James Kelsey's story 
Dr. Murgatroyd leaned forward and inter- 

" John Rymer's private case-book," he 

" Exactly," replied Kelsey, " and also 
Bradley Rymer's boom. in Canadian land." 

There was a quick stir about that table, 
and then a moment of uncomfortable silence. 
At last one spoke the thought in the minds 
of all. 

" Blackmail ! " 

" Yes." 

There was hardly a man in the room who 
had not some record of a case locked away 
in a private drawer which was worth a 
fortune of gold, and each one began to 
think of the security of his locks. 

" But where do your foreign revolutionaries 
come in ? " asked Murgatroyd, and Kelsey 
took up his tale again. 

" Bowyer and I went through that violet 
book together in my house, after the prisoners 
had been sent off. For a long time we could 
find no explanation. But right at the end of 
the book there was a case which puzzled me. 
A Mr. Johnson had entered Rymer's home 
on June 17th of the year before at five o'clock 
in the morning, a strange time to arrive. But 
there it was noted down with every other 
particular of his case. Three days later Mr. 
Johnson was operated on for cancer of the 
throat. The operation was remarkably success- 
ful, and the patient left the home cured seven 
weeks later. I think it was the unusual time 
of Mr. Johnson's arrival which first directed my 
suspicions ; and the more I thought of them 
the more credible they became. I had lighted 
a fire in the sitting-room, for the morning had 
come and it was cnilly. I said to Bowyer : — 

" ' Just wait a moment here. I keep a file 
of the Times,' and I went upstairs, blessing 
the methodical instinct which had made 
me for so long keep in due order this record 
of events. I brought down the file of June, 
and, turning over the pages, I found under 
the date of June 14th the official paragraph 
of which I was in search. I put it under 
Bowyer's eyes. He read it through and 
sprang to his feet with a cry. The paragraph 
ran like this. I can remember every word 
of it. I am inventing a name for the 
country, that's all, instead of giving you the 
real one : — 

Digitized by L^OOgle 

" ' The Crown Prince of Galicia left the 
capital yesterday for his annual visit to his 
shooting-box in the Tyrol, where he will remain 
for two months. This news effectually dispels 
the rumours that His Royal Highness's 
recent indisposition was due to a malignant 
growth in the throat.' 

" Underneath this paragraph there was an 
editorial note : — 

" ' The importance of this news cannot be 
overrated. For by the constitution of Galicia 
no one suffering from or tainted by any malig- 
nant disease can ascend the throne/ 

" Identify now Rymer's Mr. Johnson with 
the Crown Prince of Galicia, and both Bradley 
Rymer's fortune and the attack upon his 
house by the revolutionaries were explained. 

" ' What are we to do ? ' asked Bowyer. 

" c What John Rymer's executors would 
have done if the book had not been stolen/ 
I answered, balancing it above the fire. 

" He hesitated. The official mind said 
' No.' Then he realized the stupendous 
character of the secret. He burst through 
forms and rules. 

" i Yes, by Heaven,' he cried, c destroy it ! ' 
And we sat there till the last sheet blackened 
and curled up in the flames. 

" I had not a doubt as to what had hap- 
pened. I took the half-truth which the 
public knew and it fitted like a piece of a 
Chinese puzzle with our discovery. John 
Rymer, assailed with a causeless fear of 
penury, had consented for a huge fee to take 
the Crown Prince into his home under the 
false name. Bradley Rymer had got wind of 
the operation, had stolen the record of the 
case, and had the Galician Government at 
his mercy. John Rymer's suicide followed 
logically. Accused of bad faith, and already 
unbalanced, aware that a deadly secret which 
he should have guarded with his life had 
escaped, he had put the muzzle of a revolver 
into his mouth and blown his brains out." 

" What became of the foreigners ? " asked 
one of the guests, as Kelsey finished. 

" They were kept under lock and key until 
the funeral was over. Then they were sent 
out of the country." 

Kelsey rose from his chair and lighted a 
cigarette. The hands of the clock pointed 
to eleven. But before anyone else got up 
Dr. Murgatroyd asked a final question : — 

" And what of Mr. Johnson ? " 

Kelsey laughed. 

" I told you Rymer was a great surgeon. 
Mr. Johnson has been King of Galicia, as we 
are calling it. for the past ten years." 


Portraits of Celebrities 
at Different Ages 



The distant isle of Ceylon was the 
birthplace of the boy desuned to 
revolutionize and rule the British 
Navy. At the age of 13 he 
became a midshipman on board 
the "Victory/' and had not long 
to wait before the Crimean War 
gave him his first taste of 
active service. 

Vol. *lix.-22- 

edby VjOO 


AGE 19. 

When 19 years old he was pro- 
moted to Lieutenant and took part 
in the China War, being present 
at the capture of Canton and the 
Peiho forts. Early in his career his 
vigorous personality made itself felt, 
and by many he was looked on as 
one of the coming men in 
the Senior Service. 











AGE 4. 

The son of & well-known Glasgow 
shipowner, Sir David Henderson 
was born fifty - two years ago, and 
was *ent to school at Si. Andrews, 

On his return he commenced his 
itary career at Sandhurst, from 
which he entered ihe Argyll and 
Sutherland Highlanders in 188L 

AGE 14 fan the rijlit). 

After some years at school he decided 

lhai "they cannot teach mi anything 

more/' and his father thereupon sent him 

for a trip round the world. 









Valley <y Fear 






Illxjstr&t&d by Frank. Wiles 



The opening chapters of this new and thrilling 
adventure of Sherlock Holmes described the receipt by 
Holmes of a cipher message, from which he deduces 
that some devilry is intended against a man named 
Douglas, a rich country gentleman living at the Manor 
House, Birlstone, in Sussex, and that the danger is a 
pressing one. Almost as soon as he has deciphered 
the message he is visited by Inspector MacDonald, 
of Scotland Yard, who brings the news that Mr. 
Douglas has been murdered that morning. 

Holmes, Dr. Watson, and the inspector proceed to 
the scene of the tragedy, where they are met by 
Mr. White Mason, the chief Sussex detective. The 
murdered man had been horribly injured, while lying 
across his chest was a curious weapon — a shot-gun 
with the barrel sawn off a foot in front of the triggers. 
Near him was found a card with the initials "V. V." 
and] the number "341" scrawled on it in ink, and 
about half-way up the forearm was a curious design — 
a branded triangle inside a circle. His wedding-ring 
had been removed and the ring above it replaced. 

There is no clue to the murderer except a bloody 

Copyright, 1915, 

footprint on the window-sill, and he had apparently 
made his escape by wading across the moat. Holmes 
is much struck by the fact that one of Douglas's 
dumb-bells is missing. 

Cecil Barker, Douglas's most intimate friend, is 
considerably flustered while being cross-examined by 
tSe detectives, and confesses that Douglas had been 
jealous on account of his attentions to Mrs. Douglas. 
Holmes aicertains from Am?s, the butler, that on 
the previous evening Barker was wearing a pair of 
bedroom slippers which were stained with blood, and, 
o 1 comparing them with the footprints on the window- 
sill, finds that they correspond. 

Holmes gives Watson his reasons for believing that 
Mrs. Douglas and Barker know all about the murder. 
He advises the oth?r detectives to abandon the case 
and asks them to meet him that same evening, when 
he promises they shall share everything he knows. 
Meanwhile the detectives send a note to Barker 
saying that they intend to drain the moat on the 

On meeting in the evening they h d^ near the moat, 
from which they see Baiker drag a large bundle. All 




thereupon rush into the house, and Holmes extracts 
from the bundle a pair of boots, a knife, and some 
clothing of American make— and the missing dumb- 
bell! Holmes's deductions from this discovery cause 
much astonishment, which is increased when he 
recommends that Afr. 'Douglas be asked to tell his own 

At Holmes's words a man seemed to emerge from 
the wall. It is Douglas himself, who explains that he 
has been cooped up since killing, in self-defence, a man 
who had tried to murder him two days previously. 
The fact that this man — whom he had known in 
America, and who had been searching for him for 
years — was similar in build to himself gave him an 
idea. He would let it be thought that he (Douglas) 
had been killed and that the murderer had escaped. 
The dead man was dressed in Douglas's clothes, and 

the fact that each bore a similar brand on his arm made 
the deception easier. Barker then did his best to help 
his friend by providing misleading clues, with what 
result we know. 

During his enforced hiding Douglas had written an 
account of the events leading up to the tragedy. This 
he hands to Dr. Watson, saying, "There's the story of 
the Valley of Fear I " 


The scene now changes to America some twenty 
years earlier. In a West-bound train from Chicago 
John McMurdo, a member of the Ancient Order of 
Freemen, meets Brother Scanlan, a fellow-member of 
the Order. McMurdo — who, it appears, is fleeing 
from justice — tells Scanlan he is bound for Vermissa, 
where he intends to put up at a boarding-house kept by 
Jacob Shafter. 


cMURDO was a man who 
made his mark quickly. 
Wherever he was the folk 
around soon knew it. Within 
a week he had become infi- 
nitely the most important 
person at Shafter's. There 
were ten or a dozen boarders there, but they 
were honest foremen or commonplace clerks 
from the stores, of a very different calibre 
to the young Irishman. Of an evening when 
they gathered together his joke was always 
the readiest, his conversation the brightest, 
and his song the best. He was a born boon 
companion, with a magnetism which drew 
good humour from all around him. And yet 
he showed again and again, as he had shown 
in^the railway-carriage, a capacity for sudden, 
fierce anger which compelled the respect and 
even fear of those who met him. For the 
law, too, and all connected with it, he ex- 
hibited a bitter contempt which delighted some 
and alarmed others of his fellow-boarders/ 

From the first he made it evident, by his 
open admiration, that the daughter of the 
house had won his heart from the instant 
that he had set eyes upon her beauty and her 
grace. He was no backward suitor. On the 
second day he told her that he loved her, 
and from then onwards he repeated the same 
story with an absolute disregard of what she 
might say to discourage him. 

11 Someone else ! " he would cry. " Well, 
the worse luck for someone else ! Let him 
look out for himself ! Am I to lose my 
life's chance and all my heart's desire for 
someone else ? You can keep on saying * No,' 
Ettie ! The day will come when you will say 
4 Yes/ and I'm young enough to wait." 

VoL xlix.-2a 

He was a dangerous suitor, with his glib 
Irish tongue and his pretty, coaxing ways. 
There was about him also that glamour of 
experience and of mystery which attracts a 
woman's interest and finally her love. He 
could talk of the sweet valleys of County 
Monaghan from which he came, of the lovely 
distant island, the low hills and green meadows 
of which seemed the more beautiful when 
imagination viewed them from this place of 
grime and snow. Then he was versed in the 
life of the cities of the JJorth, of Detroit and 
the lumber-camps of Michigan, of Buffalo, 
and finally of Chicago, where he had worked 
in a saw-mill. And afterwards came the 
hint of romance, the feeling that strange 
things had happened to him in that great 
city, so strange and so intimate that they 
might not be spoken of. He spoke wistfully 
of a sudden leaving, a breaking of old ties, 
a flight into a strange world ending in this 
dreary valley, and Ettie listened, her dark 
eyes gleaming with pity and with sympathy — 
those two qualities which may turn so rapidly 
and so naturally to love. 

McMurdo had obtained a temporary job 
as a bookkeeper, for he was a well-educated 
man. This kept him out most of the day, 
and he had not found occasion yet to report 
himself to the head of the Lodge of the 
Ancient Order of Freemen. He was re- 
minded of his omission, however, by a visit 
one evening from Mike Scanlan, the fellow- 
member whom he had met in the train. 
Scanlan, a small, sharp-faced, nervous, black- 
eyed man, seemed glad to see him once more. 
After a glass or two of whisky, he broached 
the object of his visit. 

" Say, McMurdo/' said he, " I remembered 
your address, so I made bold to call. I'm 



body master. What's amiss that you've not 
seen Boss McGinty yet ? " 

" Well, I had to find a job. I have been 

" You must find time for him if you have 
none for anything else. Good Lord, man, 
you're mad not to have been down to the 
Union House and registered your name the 
first morning after you came here ! If you 
fall foul of him — well, you mustn't — that's 

McMurdo showed mild surprise. 

" I've been a member of Lodge for over 
two years, Scanlan, but I never heard that 
duties were so pressing as all that." 

" Maybe not in Chicago ! " 

" Well, it's the same society here." 

" Is it ? " Scanlan looked at him long and 
fixedly. There was something sinister in his 
eyes. ' 

" Is it not ? " 

" You'll tell me that in a month's time. 
I hear you had a talk with the patrolmen 
after I left the train." 

" How did you know that ? " 

" Oh, it got about — things do get about 
for good and for bad in this district." 

" Well, yes. I told the hounds what I 
thought of them." 

" By the Lord, you'll be a man after 
McGinty's heart ! " 

" What — does he hate the police, too ? " 

Scanlan burst out laughing. 

" You go and see him, my lad," said he, 
as he took his leave. " It's not the police, 
but you, that he'll hate if you don't ! Now, 
take a friend's advice and go at once ! " 

It chanced that on the same evening 
McMurdo had another more pressing inter- 
view which urged him in the same direction. 
It may have been that his attentions to Ettie 
had been more evident than before, or that 
they had gradually obtruded themselves into 
the slow mind of his good Swedish host ; 
but, whatever the cause, the boarding- house- 
keeper beckoned the young man into his 
private room and started on to the subject 
without any circumlocution. 

" It seems to me, mister," said he, " dat 
you are gettin' set on my Ettie. Ain't dat 
so, or am I wrong ? " 

" Yes, that is so," the young man answered. 

" Well, I vant to tell you right now dat 
it ain't no manner of use. There's someone 
slipped in afore you." 

" She told me so." 

" Well, you can lay dat she told you truth ! 
But did she tell you who it vas ? " 

" No ; 1 asked her, but she would not tell." 

" I dare say not, the leetle baggage. Per- 
haps she did not vish to vrighten you avay." 

" Frighten ! " McMurdo was on fire in a 

" Ah, yes, my vriend ! You need not be 
ashamed to be vrightened of him. It is 
Teddy Baldwin." 

" And who the devil is he ? " 

" He is a Boss of Scowrers." 

" Scowrers ! I've heard of them before. 
It's Scowrers here and Scowrers there, and 
always in a whisper ! What are you all afraid 
of ? Who are the Scowrers ? " 

The boarding-house-keeper instinctively 
sank his voice, as everyone did who talked 
about that terrible society. 

" The Scowrers," said he, " are the Ancient 
Order of Freemen." 

The young man started. 

"Why, I am a member of that Order myself." 

" You ! I would never have had you in 
my house if I had known it — not if you vere 
to pay me a hundred dollar a veek." 

" What's amiss with the Order ? It's for 
charity and good-fellowship. The rules say 

" Maybe in some places. Not here ! " 

" What is it here ? " 

" It's a murder society, dat's vat it is." 

McMurdo laughed incredulously. 

" How do you prove that ? " he asked. 

" Prove it ! Are there not vifty murders 
to prove it ? Vat about Milman and Van 
Shorst, and the Nicholson vamily, and old 
Mr. Hyam, and little Billy James, and the 
others ? Prove it ! Is dere a man or a 
voman in dis valley dat does not know it ? " 

" See here ! " said McMurdo, earnestly. " I 
want you to take back what you've said or 
else to make it good. One or the other you 
must do before I quit this room. Put your- 
self in my place. Here am I, a stranger in the 
town. I belong to a society that I know 
only as an innocent one. You'll find it 
through the length and breadth of the 
States, but always as an innocent one. Now, 
when I am counting upon joining it here, you 
tell me that it is the same as a murder society 
called the * Scowrers.' I guess you owe me 
either an apology or else an explanation, Mr. 

" I can but tell you vat the whole vorld 
knows, mister. The bosses of the one are 
the bosses of the other. If you offend the 
one, it is the other dat vill strike you. We 
have proved it too often." 

" That's just gossip ! I want proof ! " said 

( " Hi^lTXqfeHKJHlgAHu vill get your 



proof. But I vorget dat you are yourself 
one of dem. You vill soon be as bad as the 
rest. But you will find other lodgings, mister. 
I cannot have you here. Is it not bad enough 
dat one of these people come courting my 
Ettie, and dat I dare not turn him down, 
but dat I should have another for my boarder ? 
Yes, indeed, you shall not sleep here after 
to-night ! " 

So McMurdo found himself under sentence 
of banishment both from his comfortable 
quarters and from the girl whom he loved. 
He found her alone in the sitting-room that 
same evening, and he poured his troubles 
into her ear. 

" Sure, your father is after giving me 
notice/' he said. " It's little I would care 
if it was just my room ; but indeed, Ettie, 
though it's only a week that I've known you, 
you are the very breath of life to me, and I 
can't live without you." 

" Oh, hush, Mr. McMurdo ! Don't speak 
so ! " said the girl. " I have told you, have I 
not, that you are too late ? There is another, 
and if I have not promised to marry him at 
once, at least I can promise no one else." 

" Suppose I had been first, Ettie, would I 
have had a chance ? " 

The girl sank her face into her hands. 

" I wish to Heaven that you had been 
first," she sobbed. 

McMurdo was down on his knees before her 
in an instant. 

" For God's sake, Ettie, let it stand at 
that ! " he cried. " Will you ruin your life 
and my own for the sake of this promise ? 
Follow your heart, acushla ! 'Tis a safer 
guide than any promise given before you knew 
what it was that you were saying." 

He had seized Ettie's white hand between 
his own strong brown ones. 

" Say that you will be mine and we will 
face it out together." 

" Not here ? " 

" Yes, here." 

" No, no, Jack ! " His arms were round 
her now. " It could not be here. Could you 
take me away ? " 

A struggle passed for a moment over 
McMurdo's face, but it ended by setting like 

" No, here," he said. "I'll hold you against 
the world, Ettie, right here where we are ! " 

" Why should we not leave together ? " 

" No, Ettie, I can't leave here." 

" But why ? " 

" I'd never hold my head up again if I felt 
that I had been driven out. Besides, what is 
there to be afraid of ? Arc we not free folk 

in a free country ? If you love me and I you, 
who will dare to come between ? " 

" You don't know, Jack. You've been 
here too short a time. You don't know this 
Baldwin. You don't know McGinty and his 

" No, I don't know them, and I don't fear 
them, and I don't believe in them ! " said 
McMurdo. "I've lived among rough men, 
my darling, and instead of fearing them it 
has always ended that they have feared me 
— always, Ettie. It's mad on the face of it ! 
If these men, as your father says, have done 
crime after crime in the valley, and if every- 
one knows them by name, how comes it that 
none are brought to justice ? You answer 
me that, Ettie ! " 

" Because no witness dares to appear against 
them. He would not live a month if he did. 
Also because they have always their own men 
to swear that the accused one was far from the 
scene of the crime. But surely, Jack, you 
must have read all this ! I had understood 
that every paper in the States was writing 
about it." 

" Well, I have read something, it is true, 
but I had thought it was a story. Maybe 
these men have some reason in what they 
do. Maybe they are wronged and have no 
other way to help themselves." 

" Oh, Jack, don't let me hear you speak 
so T That is how he speaks — the other one ! " 

" Baldwin — he speaks like that, does he ? " 

u And that is why I loathe him so. Oh, 
Jack, now I can tell you the truth, I loathe * r 
him with all my heart ; but I fear him also. 
I fear him for myself, but, above all, I fear 
him for father. I know that some great 
sorrow would come upon us if I dared to say 
what I really felt. That is why I have put 
him off with half-promises. It was in real 
truth our only hope. But if you would fly 
with me, Jack, we could take father with us 
and live for ever far from the power of these 
wicked men." 

Again there was the struggle upon McMurdo's 
face, and again it set like granite. 

" No harm shall come to you, Ettie — nor 
to your father either. As to wicked men, I 
expect you may find that I am as bad as the 
worst of them before we're through." 

" No, no, Jack ! I would trust you any- 

McMurdo laughed bitterly. 

" Good Lord, how little you know of me ! 
Your innocent soul, my darling, could not 
even guess what is passing in mine. But, 
halloa, who'lpt^'yi^lEqfflf^fllg^H 

The door had opened suddenly and a young — 













fellow came swaggering in with the air of one 
who is the master. He was a handsome, 
dashing young man of about the same age and 
build as McMurdo himself. Under his broad- 
brimmed black felt hat, which he had not 
troubled to remove, a handsome face, with 
fierce, domineering ey^s and a curved, hawk- 
bill of a nose, looked savagely at the pair 
who sat by the stove. 

Ettie had jumped to her feet, full of con- 
fusion and alarm. 

"I'm glad to see you, Mr. Baldwin," said 
she. " You're earlier than I had thought. 
Come and sit down," 

Baldwin stood with his hands on his hips 
looking at McMurdo. 

" Who is this ? " he asked, curtly. 

" It's a friend of mine, Mr. Baldwin — a 
new boarder here. Mr. McMurdo, can I intro- 
duce you to Mr. Baldwin ? " 

The young men nodded in a surly fashion to 
each other. 

" Maybe Miss Ettie has told you how it is 
with us ? " said Baldwin. 

" I didn't understand that there was any 
relation between you." 

" Did you not ? Well, you can understand 
it now. You can take it from me that this 
young lady is mine, and you'll find it a very 
fine evening for a walk." 

" Thank you, I am in no humour for a walk." 

11 Are you not ? " The man's savage eyes 
were blazing with anger. " Maybe you are 
in a humour for a fight, Mr. Boarder ? " 

" That I am," cried McMurdo, springing to 
his feet. " You never said a more welcome 

"For God's sake, Jack! Oh, for God's 
sake ! " cried poor, distracted Ettie. " Oh, 
Jack, Jack, he will do you a mischief ! " 

" Oh, it's ' Jack,' is it ? " said Baldwin, 
with an oath. " You've come to that already, 
have you ? " 

" Oh, Ted, be reasonable — be kind ! For 
my sake, Ted, if ever you loved me, be great- 
hearted and forgiving ! " 

" I think, Ettie, that if you were to leave 
us alone we could get this thing settled," said 
McMurdo, quietly. " Or maybe, Mr. Baldwin, 
you will take a turn down the street with me. 
It's a fine evening, and there's some open 
ground beyond the next block." 

" I'll get even with you without needing 
to dirty my hands," said his enemy. " You'll 
wish you had never set foot in this house before 
I am through with you." 

" No time like the present," cried McMurdo. 

" I'll choose my own time, mister. You 
can leave the time to me. See here ! " He 

suddenly rolled up his sleeve and showed 
upon his forearm a peculiar sign which 
appeared to have been branded there. It 
was a circle with a cross within it. " D'you 
know what that means ? " 

" I neither know nor care ! " 

" Well, you will know. I'll promise you 
that. You won't be much older either. 
Perhaps Miss Ettie can tell you something 
about it. As to you, Ettie, you'll come 
back to me on your knees. D'ye hear, girl ? 
On your knees ! And then I'll tell you what 
your punishment may be. You've sowed — 
and, by the Lord, I'll see that you reap ! " 
He glared at them both in fury. Then he 
turned upon his heel, and an instant later the 
outer door had banged behind him. 

For a few moments McMurdo and the girl 
stood in silence. Then she threw her arms 
around him. 

" Oh, Jack, how brave you were ! But it 
is no use — you must fly ! To-night — Jack— * 
to-night ! It's your only hope. He will 
have your life. I read it in his horrible eyes. 
What chance have you against a dozen of 
them, with Boss McGinty and all the power 
of the Lodge behind them ? " 

McMurdo disengaged her hands, kissed her, 
and gently pushed her back into a chair. 

" There, acushla, there ! Don't be dis- 
turbed or fear for me. I'm a Freeman myself. 
I'm after telling your father about it. Maybe 
I am no better than the others, so don't make 
a saint of me. Perhaps you hate me, too, 
now that I've told you as much." 

" Hate you, Jack ! While life lasts I could 
never do that. I've heard that there is no 
harm in being a Freeman anywhere but here, 
so why should I think the worse of you for 
that ? But if you are a Freeman, Jack, why 
should you not go down and make a friend 
of Boss McGinty ? Oh, hasten, Jack, hasten ! 
Get your word in first, or the hounds will be 
on your trail." 

" I was thinking the same thing," said 
McMurdo. " I'll go right now and fix it. 
You can tell your father that I'll sleep here 
to-night and find some other quarters in the 

The bar of McGinty's saloon was crowded 
as usual, for it was the favourite lounge of 
all the rougher elements of the town. The 
man was popular, for he had a rough, jovial 
disposition which formed a mask, covering a 
great deal which lay behind it. But, apart 
from this popularity, the fear in which he was 
held throughout the township, and, indeed, 
down the whole thirty miles of the valley 
and past the mountains upon either side of 




it, was enough in itself to fill his bar, for 
none could afford to neglect his goodwill. 

Besides those secret powers which it was 
universally believed that he exercised in so 
pitiless a fashion, he was a high public official, 
a municipal councillor, and a commissioner 
for roads, elected to the office through the 
votes of the ruffians who in turn expected to 
receive favours at his hands. Rates and 
taxes were enormous, the public works were 
notoriously neglected, the accounts were 
slurred over by bribed auditors, and the 
decent citizen was terrorized into paying 
public blackmail, and holding his tongue lest 
some worse thing befall him. Thus it was 
that, year by year, Boss McGinty's diamond 
pins became more obtrusive, his gold chains 
more weighty across a more gorgeous vest, 
and his saloon stretched farther and farther, 
until it threatened to absorb one whole side 
of the Market Square. 

McMurdo pushed open the swinging door 
of the saloon and made his way amid the 
crowd of men within, through an atmosphere 
which was blurred with tobacco smoke and 
heavy with the smell of spirits. The place 
was brilliantly lighted, and the huge, heavily- 
gilt mirrors upon every wall reflected and 
multiplied the garish illumination. There 
were several bar-tenders in their shirt-sleeves 
hard at work, mixing drinks for the loungers 
who fringed the broad, heavily-metalled 
counter. At the far end, with his body resting 
upon the bar, and a cigar stuck at an acute 
angle from the corner of his mouth, there 
stood a tall, strong, heavily-built man, who 
could be none other than the famous McGinty 
himself. He was a black-maned giant, 
bearded to the cheek-bones, and with a shock 
of raven hair which fell to his collar. His 
complexion was as swarthy as that of an 
Italian, and his eyes were of a strange dead 
black, which, combined with a slight squint, 
gave them a particularly sinister appearance. 
All else in the man, his noble proportions, his 
fine features, and his frank bearing, fitted in 
with that jovial man-to-man manner which he 
affected. Here, one would say, is a bluff, 
honest fellow, whose heart would be sound, 
however rude his outspoken words might 
seem. It was only when those dead dark 
eyes, deep and remorseless, were turned upon 
a man that he shrank within himself, feeling 
that he was face to face with an infinite 
possibility of latent evil, with a strength and 
courage and cunning behind it which made 
it a thousand times more deadly. 

Having had a good look at his man, 
McMurdo elbowed his way forward with his 

usual careless audacity, and pushed himself 
through the little group of courtiers who were 
fawning upon the powerful Boss, laughing 
uproariously at the smallest of his jokes. 
The young stranger's bold grey eyes looked 
back fearlessly through their glasses at the 
deadly black ones which turned sharply upon 

" Well, young man, I can't call your face 
to mind." 

" I'm new here, Mr. McGinty." 

" You are not so new that you can't give 
a gentleman his proper title." 

" He's Councillor McGinty, young man," 
said a voice from the group. 

"I'm sorry, Councillor. I'm strange to 
the ways of the place. But I was advised to 
see you." 

" Well, you see me. This is all there is. 
What d'you think of me ? " 

" Well, it's early days. If your heart is 
as big as your body, and your soul as fine 
as your face, then I'd ask for nothing better," 
said McMurdo. 

" By gosh, you've got an Irish tongue in 
your head, anyhow," cried the saloon-keeper, 
not quite certain whether to humour this 
audacious visitor or to stand upon his dignity. 
" So you are good enough to pass my appear- 
ance ? " 

" Sure," said McMurdo. 

" And you were told to see me ? " 

"I was." 

" And who told you ? " 

" Brother Scanlan, of Lodge 341, Vermissa. 
I drink your health, .Councillor, and to our 
better acquaintance." He raised a glass 
with which he had been served to his lips 
and elevated his little finger as he drank it. 

McGinty, who had been watching him 
narrowly, raised his thick black eyebrows. 

" Oh, it's like that, is it ? " said he. " I'll 
have to look a bit closer into this, Mister " 

" McMurdo." 

" A bit closer, Mr. McMurdo, for we don't 
take folk on trust in these parts, nor believe 
all we're told neither. Come in here for a 
moment, behind the bar." 

There was a small room there lined round 
with barrels. McGinty carefully closed the 
door, and then seated himself on one of them, 
biting thoughtfully on his cigar, and surveying 
his companion with those disquieting eyes. 
For a couple of minutes he sat in complete 

McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one 
hand in his coat-pocket, the other twisting his 
brown moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped 
and produced a wicked-looking revolver. 





by \j>C 


Original from 





" See here, my joker," said he ; " if I thought 
you were playing any game on us, it would 
be a short shrift for you." 

44 This is a strange welcome," McMurdo 
answered, with some dignity, " for the body- 
master of a Lodge of Freemen to give to 
a stranger brother." 

" Aye, but it's just that same that you have 
to prove," said McGinty, " and God help you 
if you fail. Where were you made ? " 

" Lodge 29, Chicago." 

" When ? " 

" June 24th, 1872." 

" What bodymaster ? " 

" James H. Scott." 

" Who is your district ruler ? " 

" Bartholomew Wilson." 

" Hum ! You seem glib enough in your 
tests. What are you doing here ? " 

" Workings the same as you, but a poorer 

" You have your backanswer quick enough." 

" Yes, I was always quick of speech." 

44 Are you quick of action ? " 

" I have had that name among those who 
knew me best." 

" Well, we may try ycu sooner than you 
think. Have you heard anything of the 
Lodge in these parts ? " 

"I've heard that it takes a man to be a 

" True for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did 
you leave Chicago ? " 

" I'm hanged if I tell you that." 

McGinty opened his eyes. He was not used 
to being answered in such fashion, and it 
amused him. 

14 Why won't you tell me?" 

" Because ho brother may tell another a 

" Then the truth is too bad to tell ? " 

" You can put it that way if you like." 

" See here, mister; you can't expect me, as 
bodymaster, to pass into the Lodge a man 
for whose past he can't answer." 

McMurdo looked puzzled. Then he took a 
worn newspaper-cutting from an inner pocket. 

" You wouldn't squeal on a fellow ? " said 

" I'll wipe my hand across your face if you 
say such words to me," cried McGinty, hotly. 

14 You are right, Councillor," said McMurdo, 
meekly. " I should apologize. I spoke with- 
out thought. Well, I know that I am safe 
in your hands. Look at that cutting." 

McGinty glanced his eyes over the account 
of the shooting of one Jonas Pinto, in the 
Lake Saloon, Market Street, Chicago, in the 
New Year week of '74. 

Vol xli*.-24w 

" Your work ? " he asked, as he handed 
back the paper. 

McMurdo nodded. 

" Why did you shoot him ? " 

" I was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. 
Maybe mine were not as good gold as his, but 
they looked as well and were cheaper to make. 
This man Pinto helped me to shove the 
queer " 

" To do what ? " 

" Well, it means to pass the dollars out 
into circulation. Then he said he would 
split. Maybe he did split. I didn't wait to 
see. I just killed him and lighted out for the 
coal country." 

" Why the coal country ? " 

" 'Cause I'd read in the papers that they 
weren't too particular in those parts." 

McGinty laughed. 

" You were first a coiner and then a 
murderer, and you came to these parts 
because you thought you'd be welcome ? " 

44 That's about the size of it," McMurdo 

" Well, I guess you'll go far. Say, can you 
make those dollars yet ? " 

McMurdo took half-a-dozen from his pocket. 
" Those never passed the Washington mint," 
said he. 

44 You don't say ! " McGinty held them to 
the light in his enormous hand, which was as 
hairy as a gorilla's. 44 1 can see no dif- 
ference ! Gosh, you'll be a mighty useful 
brother, I'm thinking. We can do with a 
bad man or two amongst us, friend McMurdo, 
for there are times when we have to take our 
own part. We'd soon be against the wall if 
we didn't shove back at those that were 
pushing us." 

44 Well, I guess I'll do my share of shoving 
with the rest of the boys." 

44 You seem to have a good nerve. You 
didn't flinch when I put this pistol on you." 

44 It was not me that was in danger." 

44 Who, then ? " 

44 It was you, Councillor." McMurdo drew 
a cocked pistol from the side-pocket of his 
pea-jacket. 4< I was covering you all the 
time. I guess my shot would have been as 
quick as yours." 

McGinty flushed an angry red and thien 
burst into a roar of laughter. 

44 By gosh ! " said he. 44 Say, we've had 
no such holy terror come to hand this many 
a year. I reckon the Lodge will learn to be 
proud of you. Well, what the deuce do you 
want ? And can't I speak alone with a 
gentleman for five minutes but you must 








by Google 

Original from 





The bar-tender stood abashed. 
" I'm sorry, Councillor, but it's. Mr. Ted 
Baldwin. He says he must see you this very 

The message was unnecessary, for the set, 
cruel face of the man himself was looking 
over the servant's shoulder. He pushed the 
bar-tender out and closed the door on him. 

" So," said he, with a furious glance at 
McMurdo, " you got here first, did you ? 
I've a word to say to you, Councillor, about 
this man." 

" Then say it here and now, before my face," 
cried McMurdo. 

" I'll say it at my own time, in my own 

" Tut, tut ! " said McGinty, getting off his 
barrel. " This will never do. We have a 
new brother here, Baldwin, and it's not for 
us to greet him in such a fashion. Hold out 
your hand, man, and make it up." 
" Never ! " cried Baldwin, in a fury. 
" I've offered to fight him if he thinks I 
have wronged him," said McMurdo. " I'll 
fight him with fists, or, if that won't satisfy 
him, I'll fight him any other way he chooses. 
Now I'll leave it to you, Councillor, to judge 
between us as a body master should." 
" What is it, then ? " 
" A young lady. She's free to choose for 
" Is she ? " cried Baldwin. 
44 As between two brothers of the Lodge, 
I should say that she was," said the Boss. 
" Oh, that's your ruling, is it ? " 
" Yes, it is, Ted Baldwin," said McGinty, 
with a wicked stare. *' Is it you that would 
dispute it ? " 

44 You would throw over one that has stood 
by you this five years in favour of a man that 
you never saw before in your life ? You're 
not bodymaster for life, Jack McGinty, and, 

by GocJ, when next it comes to a vote " 

The Councillor sprang at him like a tiger. 
His hand closed round the other's neck and 
he hurled him back across one of the barrels. 
In his mad fury he would have squeezed the 
life out of him if McMurdo had not interfered. 
44 Easy, Councillor ! For Heaven's sake, go 
easy ! " he cried, as he dragged him back. 

McGinty released his hold, and Baldwin, 
cowed and shaken, gasping for breath, and 
shivering in every limb, as one who has looked 
over the very edge of death, sat up on the 
barrel over which he had been hurled. 

" You've been asking for it this many a 
day, Ted Baldwin. Now you've got it," cried 
McGinty, his huge chest rising and falling. 

" Maybe you think if I were voted down from 
bodymaster you would find yourself in my 
shoes. It's for the Lodge to say that. But 
so long as I am the chief, I'll have no man lift 
his voice against me or my rulings." 

44 1 have nothing against you," mumbled 
Baldwin, feeling his throat. 

44 Well, then," cried the other, relapsing 
in a moment into a bluff joviality, 44 we 
are all good friends again, and there's an 
end of the matter." 

He took a bottle of champagne down from 
the shelf and twisted out the cork. 

44 See now," he continued, as he filled three 
high glasses, 44 let us drink the quarrelling 
toast of the Lodge. After that, as you know, 
there can be no bad blood between us. Now, 
then, the left hand on the apple of my thrdat, 
I say to you, Ted Baldwin, what is the offence, 
sir ? " 

44 The clouds are heavy," answered Baldwin. 

44 But they will for ever brighten." 

44 And this I swear." 

The men drank their wine, and the same 
ceremony was performed between Baldwin 
and McMurdo. 

44 There," cried McGinty, rubbing his hands, 
44 that's the end of the black blood. You 
come under Lodge discipline if it goes farther, 
and that's a heavy hand in these parts, as 
Brother Baldwin knows, and as you will 
very soon find ■ out, Brother McMurdo, if 
you ask for trouble." 

44 Faith, I'd be slow to do that," said 
McMurdo. He held out his hand to Baldwin. 
44 I'm quick to quarrel and quick to forgive. 
It's my hot Irish blood, they tell me. But 
it's over for me, and I bear no grudge." 

Baldwin had to take the proffered hand, 
for the baleful eye of the terrible Boss was 
upon him. But his sullen face showed how 
little the words of the other had moved him. 

McGinty clapped them both on the 

44 Tut ! These girls, these girls ! " he cried. 
44 To think that the same petticoats should 
come between two of my boys. It's the 
devil's own luck. Well, it's the colleen 
inside of them that must settle the question, 
for it's outside the jurisdiction of a body- 
master, and the Lord be praised for that. 
We have enough on us, without the women as 
well. You'll have to be affiliated to Lodge 
341, Brother McMurdo. We have our own 
ways and methods, different to Chicago. 
Saturday night is our meeting, and if you 
come then we'll make you free for ever of 
the Vermksa VsJlfijQfln 

{To be ^if/mllinyERSITY OF MICHIGAN 


— By - 


Illustrated by Gerald Leake, R.B.A. 

T is a pleasant mental recrea- 
tion to look back over my 
forty years' connection with 
Madame Tussaud's Exhibi- 
tion. Though its foundress 
died before I came into the 
world, her name still attaches 
to the place, which owes its existence and so 
much of its enduring popularity to her genius. 
Writing my own reminiscences, I am almost 
at a loss to know where to begin and what to 
Select from the amount of material at my 
. command. In the course of my work I have 
made brief acquaintance with many great 
ones of the earth, and have been obliged 
to keep in close touch with historic events, 
sometimes chronicling the most stirring 
episDdes in ceroplastic tableaux. 

As evidence of my varied experience, I have 
stories to tell of Cardinal Manning, the great 
Duke of Wellington, Lord Roberts, Sir Henry 
Irving, John Burns, Barnum, Roger Tich- 
borne, Sun Yat Sen, the Shah of Persia, 
Ellen Terry, George Bernard Shaw, General 
Baden-Powell, the quartette of Suffragette 
leaders — Mrs. Pankhurst, the elusive Chris- 
tabel, Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, and Miss 
Annie Kenney — and many more ; stories, too, 
of outstanding incidents in the everyday life 
of the Exhibition, the notabilities who have 
visited the place, and the criticisms passed by 
people upon their own models ; and a whole 
romance to reveal regarding the best-known 
and most valuable exhibits, the manner of their 
acquisition, and many other things that lie 
deep down in the memory, coming to the 
surface now that my pen is in my hand. 

At an average rate of one model per fort- 
night, I must have turned out a round thou- 
sand in my time, some in hot haste to be 
up-to-date, others at comparative leisure, 
being less meteoric and of more abiding 
interest — Royalties, for example, and men of 
letters, or great soldiers like Gordon, Wolseley, 
and Roberts. Each stays as long as his fame 
endures. Nobody remembers when Shake- 
speare was not in the Exhibition. Voltaire is 

its " oldest inhabitant," and five generations 
have now passed before the figure of this 
Revolutionary. The most notorious leaders 
of the French Revolution are there, as, of 
course, the Exhibition was transferred from 
Paris to London over a hundred years ago. 

It was at the very doors of what is now 
Madame Tussaud ? s, then under the direction 
of John Christopher Curtius, Madame's uncle, 
that the fires of the French Revolution flared 
up in 1789. The bloodthirsty Paris mob 
bombarded M. Curtius's museum and 
clamoured for the busts of their two favourites, 
the Duke of Orleans, father of Louis Philippe, 
and M. Necker, the popular Minister, shouting 
" Vive Necker/" and " Vive le Due d'Orlians!" 
Their request was granted, and the frenzied 
people took the busts and, having covered 
them with crape, carried them in triumph 
upon their shoulders through the streets. 

In the Place Louis XV. they were mur- 
derously dispersed by the dragoons of the 
Prince de Lambesc. The bearer of Necker's 
bust and a French guardsman were killed. 
This was the first bloodshed of the Revolution, 
and " To arms ! to arms ! " became the cry. 
Madame Tussaud, then Marie Gresholtz, 
witnessed all this. She was residing at the 
time with Princess Elizabeth, sister of Louis 
XVI., to whom she was giving instruction in 
modelling. Her intimacy with the Royal 
family led to her imprisonment for three 
months in La Force, where she had for a fellow- 
inmate Madame Beauharnais, the famous 
Josdphine, who was destined to become 
Empress of France. The busts of Necker and 
the Duke were never recovered, much to the 
family's regret, as they possessed intense 
historic interest. 

It was in 1802 that Madame came to London, 
having lived in Paris through the whole of 
the French Revolution. Frequently had her 
art been requisitioned to mould the head of 
some sanguinary monster or other, Robes- 
pierre, Danton, and Marat among the number. 
The cast of the last mentioned of this trio, 
Still in the Exhibition, was taken bv Madame 



Tussaud at the scene of his murder, and later 
she made a cast of the once beautiful face of 
his assassin, Charlotte Corday. Madame came 
to London alone, leaving her husband, 
Francois Tussaud, in Paris. After nearly 
half a century of peaceful and prosperous 
years in England, she died in 1850, in her 
ninety-first year. 

Short of stature and exceedingly spare of 
figure, her courage, enterprise, and vivacity 
were wonderful. The model of the little lady 
is still a great attraction in the Exhibition. 
She presides over the " breathing " form of 
the Sleeping Beauty, at whose feet sits William 
Cobbett, in sombre, Quaker-like guise, turning 
his wise head frojn side to side. 

A few years ago a child was lost in the 
Exhibition, and naturally the distracted 
parents created considerable excitement. In 
the end the missing mite crept out from under 
the draperies of the Sleeping Beauty. He had 
been trying to discover the mechanism that 
causes the figure's bosom to rise and fall. His 
inquiring nature was rewarded with summary 
chastisement on the spot from his irate 

As a curious story of the crinoline period, 
a laughable incident may be recounted. The 
notice of an attendant was drawn to a lady 
of grandmotherly appearance, whose foot- 
steps resounded strangely as she passed 
through the turnstile. His curiosity being 
aroused, he watched her as she passed into 
the main hall, and she was seen to take cover 
behind a group, where she released two small 
children from undcr.her capacious skirt. 

I must admit it still affords me considerable 

amusement to recall the ".sitting" I had 

from the Right Hon. John Burns, who easily 

ranks as the liveliest model I ever studied. 

As a matter of fact, he did not " sit " for a 

moment, but strode about the room. like 

a man incapable of repose. He was not a 

Cabinet Minister or an ex-Cabinet Minister 

then ; not even a member of Parliament. I 

am going back to the turbulent days of the 

dock strike and the Trafalgar Square riots, 

*nen John was stamping his personality 

indelibly upon the democracy of England, 

fighting the battle of the class from which he 


. *"• Burns might have seen in me the 

f??k lat * on °* a S ras P^ n S capitalist, so fiercely 
j k lecture me upon the sufferings of the 
°ckers and the ruthlessness of shipowners 
^a shipbuilders, and everybody, I suppose, 
ea ** u ng more than five hundred pounds a year. 
We had on the blue reefer suit which he 
* or e in the riots, and I told him I needed that 

suit very badly to clothe his model. I offered 
to replace it with another. At first Mr. Burns 
demurred at my proposal, but finally agreed. 
His effigy wears that suit still. It 'is slightly 
out of fashion, but that is one of its charms, 
and it fits well. Mr. Burns's rapid and un- 
precedented advance in the political world 
is notified by the promotion of his model to 
Cabinet rank. It has now stood for some 
years in a group of statesmen which includes 
Mr. Asquith, Mr. Lloyd George, Mr. Churchill, 
and Lord Haldane. 

I failed to obtain possession of the famous 
straw hat worn by Mr. Burns. Nothing would 
coax him to part with it. I wonder where 
that " riotous " straw is now ? Perhaps Mr. 
Burns keeps a peg set apart for it at home to 
remind the now peaceful politician of his 
tempestuous past. 

I don't think I have seen Mr. Burns since 
that memorable interview. They tell me he 
is getting very white. His hair was very 
dark in those end-of-the-century days. And 
his voice ! It was of the real oratorical 
quality. I believe he does not use his voice 
much nowadays. 

Whether he ever visited Madame Tussaud's 
to see his model I never heard. As a rule 
people do. Some come secretly and shyly ; 
others ask the attendants to be introduced to 
" themselves." 

One inclement Sunday morning I had a 
notification by telephone when far away in 
the country that an important traveller 
passing through London would like to pay a 
visit to the Exhibition, the request being con- 
veyed to me by an old friend and neighbour. 
Unable to fathom the mysterious message, 
and the train service being inadequate, I 
could not reach Baker Street in time, but tele- 
phoned to the senior fireman to be ready to 
show the visitor round. At about eleven 
o'clock a gentleman of Oriental bearing, 
accompanied by a lady and two other com- 
panions, passed through the side entrance. 
The party was conducted over the Exhibition, 
and in course of their inspection stopped in 
front of the figure of Dr. Sun Yat Sen, which 
had just been added to the collection. It 
was then, and not till then, that the fireman 
noticed that the mysterious visitor and the 
figure were identical in appearance. Dr. Sun 
Yat Sen was passing through London incognito 
to take up his important position as President 
of the Chinese Republic. The visit had been 
planned by Dr. Cantley — his lifelong friend 
and adviser, and his liberator, years before, 
from incarcerate an in the Chinese Embassy 
at Porttod Ftaffy OF MICHIGAN 



One day Lord Rol>erts called, and, of 
course T was recognized immediately. The 
ex-military attendants saluted him. With 
characteristic directness he said : "You 
have a figure of mine here, Where is it ? 
I'd like to see it." The Field-Marshal sur- 
veyed his model thoughtfully for some minutes, 
and then said, '* Not at all bad. 5 ' 

He stayed a considerable time, and lingered 
mainly among the Napoleonic relics. The 
tableau of the Duke of Wellington, standing 
with uncovered head in the death-chamber 
of Napoleon, who lies dead^^his] ^pallet 

* O 

before him T held Lord Roberts's attention 
some minutes, but he said nothing. What 
struck one about the great soldier was his 
complete absence of self-consciousness. He 
came to see the Exhibition, and paid his 
shilling like anybody else, I think it was 
Henry Irving who laughed so heartily when 
I told him that a niche in the Valhalla carried 
with it a perpetual free pass. I used the 
term " Valhalla " on the authority of Lord 
BeaconsfiekL who spoke of Madame Tussaud's 
as the t( Valhalla of the British nation/ 1 
Mentio© r iffinfrlvfflg |T puts back the clock 


"MY characters:' 



& nunitar of years, when, on the eve of his 
first journey across the Atlantic, the famous 
actor favoured me with a sitting which proved 
a- relief in the midst of my quiet labours, 
Irving^ urbanity impressed me greatly, and 
the interest he took in my work, together with 
hU readiness to help me in every way so far 
as his own model was concerned^ stamped 
him as the kindliest of men, 

Conversation during the sitting turned 
upon the insuring of a place like Madame 
Tus-saud's against fire^ and Irving remarked 
%k\t it would be a pity if it were burnt. 

as it comprised so many unique works, and 
could hardly rise again, phoenix-like, from its 

On taking his departure Irving lit his 
pipe as he entered his cab, with a cheery 
il Good day ! I shall come in quietly some 
day on my return from America and see what 
you have dony with me," They told me he 
came about a year later, but, unfortunately, 
I missed him. 

As I wished to introduce Henry Irving and 

I wmtJ^^fefe dome S 





honour of sitting for mc. She replied, saying 
she would be pleased to do so, but she omitted 
to make an appointment. She came un- 
expectedly at a moment when I was engrossed 
in work in a retired part of the building. 
How she found her way to my studio door, 
without anyone to guide her, has always 
puzzled me. I was roused by a resounding 
rap T and in sailed the vivacious ac tress 7 all 
smiles and animation. No one came with 
her, and she did not introduce herself. There 
was no need* I knew her instantly, as I 
suppose she imagined I should. It was a 
sweltering summer day, and she, too, was 

making her final arrangements for going 

" I am just clearing off all my visiting 
arrears before sailing/* she said, ** and you 
see I have not forgotten you* But, please, 
Mr. Tussaudj let me have a cup of tea, if 
you do not want me to expire in your studio 
of heat apoplexy," 

She was served with the desired cup of tea, 
I remember she wore a gauntlet on one of 
her hands, and she told me she had met with 
an accident on the stage. She proved a very 
patient sitter, a^.d entertained me all the time 

wLt ^lW*lWxDflBfaiS* Though - the 

MY characters: 9 


actress was plainly in a great hurry, not a woro 
was said about haste till I had finished, when 
she made off as breezily and as uncere- 
moniously as she came, leaving me wondering 
whence she got such a fund of high spirits, 
despite a shade temperature in the nineties. 
About equal marks must be given to Ellen 
Terry and John Burns as my most uncon- 
ventional sitters. 

An exceedingly bright lady sitter was Miss 
Annie Kenney, who, though a Lancashire 
mill-worker at the age of ten, has long been 
recognized as one of the most indomitable 
of the quartette of Suffragette leaders who 
now occupy a position at Madame Tussaud's, 
in full view of the Ministerial group — Mr. 
Asquith, Mr. Lloyd George, and other members 
of the Cabinet. Each of the four Suffragettes 
— Mrs. Pankhurst, Miss Christabel Pankhurst, 
Mrs. Pethick Lawrence, and Miss Kenney — 
sat to me separately, and I think it was Miss 
Kenney who said, "It would be dangerous 
to place us near the Cabinet Ministers. They 
might melt under the glare of our glances." 

Phineas Taylor Barnum, the famous show- 
man, was a warm-hearted, debonair old 
gentleman. He was courtesy personified. 
Though over eighty years of age, Barnum 
still retained full interest in the affairs of his 
wonderful show. I reaily believe he was 
wondering whether it would be worth his 
while to set up a rival to Madame Tussaud's: 
Which reminds me that the Times once 
described the Marylebone Red House as 
" the most evergreen of institutions, without 
a rival here or on the Continent." 

From Barnum to Roger Tichborne, the 
Claimant, may seem a strange transition, 
though both were big men in their way, and 
loomed large in the public eye for a time. 
At the beginning of his trial the Claimant 
was of gigantic proportions, weighing nearer 
thirty than twenty stone, and so the public 
always pictured him. But it was a very 
different man who called at Madame Tussaud's 
years afterwards,, when jail fare and con- 
finement had had their effect upon his 
once corpulent frame. During the civil case 
arrangements were made that he should sit 
to my father, I being a lad at the time. 
A room in the Claimant's private house at 
Camden Town was fitted up for taking the 
sittings by artificial light at night, as he had 
°ther " sittings " to attend during the day 
at the courts. A gasfitter prepared a special 
Mstallation, which he considered to be a novel 
and improved form of lighting, at once power- 
ful and convenient. Unfortunately, however, 
it leaked so badly at the joints that it turned 

Vol *l«.-2ft. 

the improvised studio into a gasometer in 
a very short time. If anyone had entered 
with a light before the leakage was located and 
stopped — well, criminal proceedings would 
have been obviated, and the Claimant would 
have escaped a long imprisonment. 

As a means of alleviating the strain upon 
his mind when not in court, he spent much of 
his spare time in the strange occupation of 
making nets. 

One trait in the Claimant's character seemed 
to indicate that he was net altogether lacking 
in good qualities. When the criminal trial 
was drawing to a finish, he promised my father 
a suit of clothes so that his model should be 
' properly dressed. Taking into consideration 
his enormous girth and general proportions, 
the necessity of obtaining his own clothes was 
urgent. Immediately after he had been 
sentenced to fourteen years' penal servitude, 
he instructed his manservant to deliver 
a parcel containing one of his suits at the 
Exhibition studios, and enclosed a note in 
his own handwriting, regretting that it had 
not been sent before. Such an act of thought- 
fulness and loyalty to a promise, in the case 
of a man just sentenced to so long a term of 
imprisonment, showed that he was of no 
ordinary type. 

It was a strange coincidence that I was 
actually, as a youth, acquainted ^uth the 
real heir to the Tichborne estates. One day, 
visiting my old college d St. Augustine's, 
Ramsgate, as an " old boy," the fellows came 
trooping through the cloisters to the refectory, 
and one of my old masters, Dom Willibald, 
called one of the lads aside and introduced 
him to me as young Tichborne. At that very 
time the Claimant was sitting to my father. 
The youthful heir seemed vastly more con- 
cerned about having his dinner than at losing 
the family estates. 

Many a time have I visited St. Stephen's 
to study the characteristic attitudes of our 
leading statesmen. Preachers — though there 
is a dearth of great ones lately — " sit " to 
me in their pulpits unawares. That was how 
I studied the Rev. R. J. Campbell, of the 
City Temple, when his New Theology brought 
him into the limelight. 

When Stanley agreed to sit to my father, 
the latter had to go to his model's study and 
sketch him at work, the great explorer being 
at the time extremely busy in the production 
of " How I Found Livingstone." 

Little-known men, however great or good, 
must abandon all hope of finding a habitation 
here. But there is a place for Dorando, the 
Marathon runner of the Olympic Games ; a 




place for Blondin, of tight-rope and Niagara 
fame ; pedestals for General Booth, \V. G. 
Grace, Sir Thomas Lipton, George R. Sims, 
the late Fred Archer, Dan Leno, Captain 
Webb, and General Tom Thumb. When the 
last-mentioned little gentleman came to see 
his model in close proximity to that of a 
Russian giant, the General threw back his 
head and, turning to his dwarfish bride at 
his side, repeated in good elocution : — 

Were I so tall as to reach the Pole 
And grasp the heavens in my span, 

I .must be measured by my soul : 
The mind's the standard of the man* 

These, and such as these, live and loom in 
the; public eye, or still linger in the public 
.memory. That is the essential thing. Strange 
to relate, profound thinkers or philosophers, 
who sit in the chairs of the world's univer- 
sities ; the heads of our great public schools, 
who mould the minds of their country's 
future leaders, are yet not suitable candidates 
for a great popular museum like Madame 

Our heroes are of two classes — the immortals 
and the ephemerals. The first work I was 
called upon to produce in the Exhibition, 
forty years ago, was Prince Milan of Servia. 
He had his little day, till visitors passed him 
by without stopping. That is the supreme 
test. Other Servian Royalties have come 
and gone since Prince Milan stepped from his 
pedestal. The assassinated King Alexander 
and his queen gave place here to the ill-fated 
King of Portugal and his son and heir, who 
were done to death in the streets of Lisbon. 

Frequently candidates for a place in the 
Exhibition are sprung upon me without any 
notice of their coming renown. Circum- 
stances make known the man. For instance, 
little did the public know about Admiral Sir 
John Jellicoe before the war. I had never 
had the fortune of seeing the Admiral, but 
obviously the man at the head of the British 
Fleet in an historic crisis had to have a place 
in the company of Drake and Nelson and his 
contemporaries, Fisher and Beresford, if 
Madame Tussaud's were to maintain its 
reputation for up-to-dateness. The camera is 
always a useful ally in emergencies. The 
Admiral's latest photograph came to my 
rescue, and though not u taken from life " 
directly, a portrait-model has been presented 
which enables people to form a good idea of 
the appearance of the man of the moment. 

War inevitably produces a crop oi heroes, 
and I am called upon to do my best in repro- 
ducing their likenesses ior the delectation of 
the public. 'J o Lieutenant-General Sir Robert 

Baden-Powell, the Chief Scout, belongs the 
distinction of having had his portrait-model 
cheered. I believe that incident is unique. 
It demonstrates the intensity of public feel- 
ing during the closing days of the Boer War. 

The unsophisticated country cousin often 
gets confused and mistakes figures for 
visitors and visitors for figures, and frequently 
makes amusing blunders with the catalogue. 
It is a favourite diversion of kindly-disposed 
friends to lead each other into these traps. 

When I am asked which figure is considered 
to be the most successful model in the Ex- 
hibition, the consensus of opinion expressed 
by the visitors points to the figure of Queen 
Victoria as the general favourite. Her late 
Majesty occupies a place of honour by herself 
at the head of the Hall of Kings. She sits in 
her writing-room at Osborne, contemplating, 
pen in hand, the " Queen of all queens," as her 
impulsive grandson, the Kaiser, called her. 
The features of Queen Victoria presented many 
difficulties. Firm, and yet mobile , her face was 
expressive of great will-power, loftiness, and 
sweetness of character — in a word, perfected 
womanliness, and I worked for many months 
upon her model before I felt that I had 
produced a worthy representation. 

A model at Madame Tussaud's may not 
carry so much distinction as a cartoon in 
Punch, but it is remarkable how many people 
are by no means unwilling to allow that 
honour to be thrust upon them. The de- 
cision to add a model is influenced solely by 
the wish to gratify the desire of the public 
to see the visible presentment of those who 
have become celebrated or notorious. 

Cardinal Manning I saw much of as a lad- 
It will be remembered that towards the close 
of the great dock strike he figured largely in 
the public mind as a great mediator, and 
thereupon, naturally enough, his model was 
introduced to Tussaud's. As a boy I was 
train-bearer to the Cardinal in church pro- 
cessions at St. Mary of the Angels, adjoining 
St. Charles's College, Bays water, where I spent 
my earlv school days and saw much of the 
great head of the Catholic Church in England. 
Modelling his figure was, as may be imagined, 
a congenial task. 

For years I wanted George Bernard Shaw 
to sit to me, but could not persuade myself 
that he would comaly. I ftad never met the 
brilliant satirist. When at length I wrote to 
ask, he answered my letter in the most 
courteous terms, and characteristically ob-. 
served that it would give him much pleasure 
to " join ^gjfleimpanv of the immortals.'' 

<f MY characters:' 




The pose of his figure is the one he involun- 
tarily assumed wh(;n iiring on the dais in my 
studio. Ait hough to an ordinarv o mocker 
Mr. Shaw may have appeared very serious, 
it was quite evident that the sitting interested 
arid amused him intensely. One of his terse 
remarks is fixed in my memory, 

"I took to writing," he said, "with the 
object of obtaining a living without having 
to work tor it, hut I have long since realized 
that I made a great mistake*" 

He afterwards walked through the Ex- 
hibition, and for the first time viewed the 
Napoleonic relics, in which he took the 

greatest interest In the Chamber of Horrors 
he moved from figure to figure as though their 
physiognomy interested him* The sinister 
faces in this gloomy abode of bad men and 
women seemed to fascinate the playwright. 
The marvellously crafty, and yei not wholly 
repulsive, lace of Charles Peace held Mr. 
Shaw's attention some minutes, leaving him 
in a very pensive mood. 

By the way, it was Punch who named that 
unhallowed apartment the <; Chamber of 
Horrors/' Previouslv it bore such names as 
the u Black Roo!r " find Mie " Dead Room/' 
neither ffl^#^f ffl£ Hf9ffl» ti! <*' ** 



American journalist tried the " Temple of 
Turpitude/' but that lacked the charm of 
simplicity. When Madame Tussaud's was 
touring the provinces in the early days of 
the nineteenth century a famous Oxford don 
thought it was regrettable that criminals and 
celebrities should be exhibited in the same 
room^as was then done .for want of accommo- 
dation. Thereafter a separation was effected, 
and eventually Punch obliged with the familiar 
appellation which so aptly describes this 
gloomy place. 

Years ago a mysterious rumour, of the 
origin of which we have no absolute know- 
ledge, gained currency that the management 
had offered a reward, ranging from five pounds 
to a hundred pounds, to anyone who would 
spend a night in the Chamber. All efforts 
to allay it have failed. I have strong 
suspicions of one " Dagonet." Hundreds of 
letters have reached us from fat and near, 
from stout-hearted men and venturous women, 
impecunious schoolboys, and not a few girls, 
volunteering their services, some at reduced 
fees. One wag suggested that a bottle of 
whisky and some sandwiches would be all 
he should require, with a comfortable chair 
at the feet of Burke and Hare. In fact, all 
sorts of conditions have been made, but one 
squeamish correspondent begged that no. 
unfair advantage should be taken and no 
practical jokes played. 

Of course, no such reward ever was offered, 
or ever will be offered. I recollect a doggerel 
parody of the time which ran like this : — 

I dreamt that I slept at Madame Tussaud's 
With cut-throats and kings by my siJe, 

And that all the wax figures in those weird aboje* 
At midnight became vivified. 

One of the funniest and drollest scenes 1 
ever witnessed took place during the demoli- 
tion of the 013 Bailey. 

Early on a cold winter y s morning, during 
a view of the bts before the place was pulled 
down, I went to one of the courts for the 
purpose of examining the old wooden struc- 
tures. There I came upon a bevy of workmen, 
and among them a jovial-looking carpenter, 
evidently the foreman. In a moment, as 
though by prearranged signal, this joker 
jumped into the judge's seat, his companions 
laid hold of one of their number and ran him 
into the dock, and some took upon them- 
selves the functions of a jury. One comical 
individual got into the witness-box and 
solemnly swore away the prisoner's life with 
a blood-curdling story of wife murder which 
did his imagination no small credit. Upon 
another indictment the accused was charged 

with the offence of working overtime without 
pay, I was the only occupant of the benches 
" set apart for the public." The jury inter- 
rupted the witness with shouts of " Guilty ! " 
and the culprit had no chance of defending 
himself by counsel or otherwise. Putting on 
an old black billycock hat, the judge, having 
solemnly addressed the prisoner on the 
enormity of his crimes, gravely sentenced 
him to death, with the option of a fine to 
the tune of " drinks round." It was the 
audacity of the thing and its grim drollery 
that amused me. 

On that occasion were secured for the 
Exhibition such curios as the Old Bailey dock, 
the jury-box, the witness-box, and the bell 
that tolled to notify the completion of the 
hangman's work. So ako before my day was 
purchased in Paris by Madame Tussaud that 
most tragical of'all relics, the original knife 
and lunette that severed so many heads in 
the French Revolution, including those of 
Louis XVI., his queen, Marie Antoinette, 
and Robespierre. 

The French portion of the Exhibition 
represents practically all that Madame 
Tussaud brought with her from Paris when 
she came here to start life anew. For years 
she travelled with her museum, as London 
was slow to give adequate support for a 
permanent institution of the kind. In one 
of her journeys she was shipwrecked with 
all her precious relics whilst, crossing to 
Dublin. Fortunately, practically everything 
was recovered. 

Among the French relics, possibly the most 
interesting is the travelling carriage of 
Napoleon, which was captured at Waterloo. 
This came into our possession after many 
vicissitudes. It was first of all the property 
of the Prince Regent, and ultimately was 
secured for two thousand five hundred pounds, 
which was paid for it by Mr. Bullock, of the 
Egyptian Hall. This relic was sent on 
exhibition in London and the provinces, and 
in Scotland and Ireland, and secured for 
its owner a handsome fortune. 

The last occupants of Napoleon's carriage 
were the present Prince of Wales and his 
younger brother Albert. They came to the 
Exhibition a few years ago, and the Royal 
boys evinced boundless interest in " Boney's " 
carriage. The Prince begged to be allowed 
to sit in it, a privilege granted to anyone up 
till that time. Then his younger brother got 
inside as well. As the carriage was then 
undergoing preparations for being encased in 
glass, it was decided that the Royal boys 
should be the last ol our visitors to go inside It, 





OR King and Country ! " 
Nearly every time I lay my 
bead upon the pillow, or on 
the thing which has to serve 
me as a pillow, those words 
come dancing before my 
eyes, and when I go to sleep 
—if I do go to sleep — in the darkness I can 

A Man in tne Making. 

Illustrated by Ckarles Pears* 

see them through my dosed eyelids. Fm in the 
Ninth Battalion of the King's Royal Rifles ; 
Kitchener's Second Army, we call ourselves ; 
that's the lot I'm in. We* re most of us 
London lads, from offices and works hops , or 
something like that, and we've never been 
anything eise— or expected to be- And now 
here we are on the Sussex Downs, looking 
over the sea, in all sorts of weather, night and 
day, being turned into soldiers, men who can 
fight — for King and Country ! 

You should have seen some of us when we 
first joined — seen me, for instance, I'd never 
taken any real exercise in all my life, A stroll 
in the streets at night, that was about my 

We must have been a pretty hopeless lot 
when we first made the acquaintance of 
Sergeant Judkins. That was in Battersea 
Park, Some of us were better than others, 
hut most ot us were worse. His language was 
disgraceful — and I don't wonder. When I 
have seen new recruits come in, and seen them 
start their drill, it has given me a pain to 
watch them. It has, really ! What the 
sergeant must suffer, spending his life in 
tackling new lots, goodness only knows ! I 
shouldn't care to do it myself. But, speaking 
generally 3 a lop-sided, knock-kneed sort of 
chap six weeks after Sergeant Judkins gets 
hold of him is twice the man he was. And he 
knows it— he feels it — and hell let you know 
it, too. H Swank J " is what I call his bearing 
towards people who are just as he was. 

We were drilled in HaVcersea Park for just 
on a month. Mother and Dad and Dora — 



and even my sister Louisa ! — used to come 
and watch us. 

i At the end of the first week 1 was pretty 
nearly dead. If it hadn't been that I'd had 
those words — " For King and Country" — 
. tucked away inside me somewhere from the 
very first I believe I should have been quite* 
Every bone in my body ached. I got so i i red 
that sometimes I couldn't wait to undress* 

I think it was after the first week that I 
began to get some of that tired fueling out of 
■ ! my bones. Not that I was up to much even 
then, because I wasn't. It wasn't till after 
I'd had a month of it that physically I was 
worth a row of pins. Mind you, I thought I 
was, but I know better now; now I know 
what " physically fit " does mean. I don't 
believe that half the young chaps in London 
— or, I dare say, in any other great town — 
ever know. They'll want to give me a clip 
over the head for saying so— but I don't It 
was, as I have said, just on a month when we 
got our marching orders. We were billeted 
in a house close to Battersea Park— five of us 
in one house. Billeting is all l uc k — they may 
treat you like a lord, or like something out of 
a gutter. On the whole, over at Battersea 
they did us pretty well. But it wasn't a nice 
way of beginning soldiering. It wasn't any- 
body's fault, recruits were pouring in, " For 
King and Country " had got into the veins of 
no end of young fellows ; quarters weren't 
ready — not proper quarters, England never 



had what you might call an army ; I didn't 
know it then, but I do now, that it's against 
our policy to have/>ne* Whether it will ever 
be different, I can't say. As things were 
there wasn't accommodation of any sort for 
any number of soldiers worth speaking of. 
They had to stick them just anywhere, As 
I mentioned just now, there were five of us 
iii my house j and there really wasn't room for 
us. Three of us slept in the kitchen and two 
in the scullery — on the floor. There wasn't a 
bed among the lot, 

All the same, it was good training. A 
soldier has got to sleep anywhere ; he can't 
choose his couch. He gets to that state that 
he can go to sleep among thistles , or on the 
top of a heap of flints. T hat's better than 
six inches of water — I know it ? because I've 
tried both, 

But 7 mind you, I never quite took to that 
Battersea billet. Sixpence a day the Govern- 
ment paid for our sleeping accommodation. 
The Government supplied our food and we 
were supposed to cook it* We never did that, 
became not one of us knew anything about 
cooking. The woman of the hous 1 ; did. As 
she seemed to know as much aDout cooking 
as we did it wasn't much of a success. 

When orders came that we were to shift 
some of us had got our kits and some of us 
hadn't* It. takes a Jtnt of doing to equip an 
army at^l^ftmrntfiPl notice — which was 
praL J titifi^Wa0lt^l^b^kent uid to do. 


OF Tim TRAM - CAlLS*" 

A queer lot we must have looked, some of us 
in uniform and some of us not. Personally; 
I had got nearly every thing — and not sue h a 
bad fit, considering. I had got my two sets of 
underclothing and my three pairs of socks, my 
belt and shoulder-straps , with the six pouches 
in which one day I was to carry a hundred 
and fifty rounds of ammunition, and my knap- 
sack on my back, with a hold-all containing 
housewife, tooth-brush, shaving- tackle, knife, 
fork, and spoon, I had my pickaxe and my 
bayonet at my side ; while my haversack and 
water-bottle were slung over my shoulders. 
In fact, I had everything, including rifle and 

It was a Wednesday when we left town — 
they never told us we were going until two 
days before we started, and then they didn't 
say where we were going to. The authorities 
didn't deal much in information — they just 
told us to do this or that, and we did it. Some- 
how we L'<>t so that wc didn't mind. There's 
something about discipline which grows on 
yon. When a chap has never been ordered 
about in all his life f the first time he is told 
to do somethrig and look sharp about it 
he looks at the chap who tells him as 
tf he kind of wondered who he was. But 
he soon gets over that ; he soon gets to 
know that the chap who is talking knows 
a good deal more about the job than be 
docs himself, and that the shortest and 
easiest way to get to know more is to move 


as nearly like lightning as he can at the 
word of command* 

They told us just before we were starting 
that we were going to march to Croydon, Of 
course, I have heard of Croydon- Once when 
I went to Brighton I had a sort of idea that 
the train went through it ; but I didn't know 
where it was— and I don't know much about 
it now. I know that we went for miles and 
miles through streets ? along tram-lines, and 
before w hi : # h en gone very long Fd have 
given a trifle ^it of my own pocket to have 
got onon^ nt the tram-cars. 

We had done a good deal of walking, but 
that was the first steady, straightforward 
march we had, And it soon did for some of 
our chaps. When you come to think of it, 
it's extraordinary what bad walkers a lot of 
London lads are. I suppose that's because 
of the tram-cars, omnibuses, tubes, going 
everywhere for such a little money — to say 
nothing of saving time^ it's a lot cheaper to 
ride than to walk. 

As I said, they told us that we were going to 
Croydon , but it turned out that they wouldn't 
let us stop when we got there. They took us 
right through the town and about five miles 
beyond — it seemed to me *ifty. Then they 
brought us to a standstill :n a field at a place 
which I afterwards learned was called Parley, 
and they gave us our billeting tickets, and off 
we all went to fiiriij out for ourselves where we 
were to «tf t tB$mei# ffltffl&N 



I had a slice of luck — I never shall forget 
it. I was so dead tired that I could hardly 
drag one foot after the other. Laburnum 
Villa, Sydney Road, was where I was to be 
quartered. It seemed to me that I never 
should get there ; when I did I thanked my 
stars. Three of us were billeted there. It 
is a new road ; half the houses weren't 
finished, and there wasn't any proper pave- 
ment to walk on. The sight of Laburnum 
Villa did all three of us good. It was a 
double-fronted, detached house, standing in 
quite a nice piece of garden. Two ladies were 
standing at the front gate as we came along. 

" What address are you looking for ? " 
asked one of the ladies. I had the ticket in 
my hand ; I told her. " This is Laburnum 
Villa. Come in I Why, you're only boys, 
and how tired you look ! " 

We didn't doubt that we did look tired. 
If she had felt as we did she would have looked 
it ; but we didn't fancy being called " only 
boys." I dare say that if we hadn't been so 
tired we should have told her so. When a 
man's going to fight for King and Country 
he has stopped being a boy, and he doesn't 
care to be told he hasn't. As the song says, 
" He's a Soldier and a Man ! " 

The Misses Kershaw lived at Laburnum 
Villa. I have the honour, although I've only 
seen them once, of numbering them among 
my friends to this day — though it's quite on 
the cards I may never see them again. They 
are maiden ladies. Miss Kershaw told me 
herself that she was forty-nine, and Miss 
Mary that she was forty-eight— and they both 
of them said that they didn't ;pind anybody 
knowing it, so I'm giving no secret away. 
They had a servant, Emma Marchant. She 
was fifty-four, and had been with them thirty 
years, so no wonder she thought us boys. 

There was a bed for each of us ; I even had 
a room to myself. It was very small, but if 
it had been a palace it couldn't have been 
more comfortable — or cleaner. It was so 
clean that in the state I was in I was ashamed 
to go into it. Miss Kershaw herself waited 
on me ; I tried not to let her do it, but she 
would — she even what she called " helped me 
with my boots " — which meant that she took 
them off for me. It's true that I was so stiff 
that I could hardly bend down to them ; she 
had them undone before I got there. Then 
I had a hot bath in the bathroom. After 
what I had had to put up with at Battersea 
that was something to rejoice over. As soon 
as I had dressed myself again there was supper 
ready. We sat down to table with the Misses 
Kershaw. A nicely-laid table it was, with 

everything proper for gentlefolk. Hot roast 
beef there was — and Miss Kershaw actually 
apologized for its being overdone, which, she 
said, was owing to their having expected us 
an hour before. After the sort of thing I had 
put up with at Battersea it seemed to me that 
it was the most perfectly-cooked beef I had 
ever tasted. There was Yorkshire pudding, 
roast potatoes, and cauliflower — with a plum 
tart to follow. It was a banquet, that's what 
it was. I was a bit ashamed of the quantity 
we ate, but to listen to those two ladies you'd 
have thought we weren't eating anything. 
We ate ourselves asleep — that's a fact ! I 
went straight from the table to bed. The 
luxury of being in a bed ! I was asleep as 
soon as I was between the sheets. 

In the morning Emma had to come into 
the room and give me a good shaking before I 
could be got to understand that a bugle was 
being blown in the street outside. She told 
me it was six o'clock. We had to fall in at 
seven and start directly afterwards. We had 
a great dish of really good ham a'nd eggs for 
breakfast ; then we said good-bye, and soon 
after half-past seven we were on the road — 
with a lot of sandwiches and things which the 
Misses Kershaw had given us. 

It was a fine morning, with something in 
the air which made it seem even finer than I 
dare say it was — perhaps that was because it 
was in the country. It's my belief that the 
country has air of its own — there is a fresh- 
ness in it, a snap, a sort of pick-me-up which 
you don't seem to get in town. At least, you 
don't seem to notice it. I've lived in London 
nearly all my life, so I ought to know. Half 
the neighbourhood was out to see us start ; 
you'd have thought we had spent the night 
amid old friends, the way they waved and 
shouted good-bye. Every man Jack had got 
a tale to tell as we swung along— and mind 
you, at any rate to start with, we did swing — 
at least most of the fellows did. Two or three 
were crocked — sore feet, stiff legs, and general 
done-upedness. Extraordinary what rotten 
bad bargains — from the recruiting sergeant's 
point of view — some of the fellows were. 

They might have joined to fight for King 
and Country — I don't say they didn't. It 
doesn't follow that because a chap has only 
one leg, or can't see straight along the barrel 
of a gun, that he isn't keen to fight for his 
native land — I know better than that. There 
was a chap named Sparrow — Bob Sparrow — 
who I've seen a good deal of one way and 
another ; they weren't dead nuts on him 
when he wanted to enlist — in fact, they 

^u^fl^F^T^rti^j^r 11 - He told me 

inal from 




officer gets talked to like that. Maybe it was 
the nbvelty which induced the doctor to pass 
Sparrow — anyhow, he did. 

" Iil run the rule over you again in about 
a month/' he told him. " If by then you're 
not nearer what's wanted you'll have to go — 
in which case you'll have to make your own 
arrangements for paying for your keep." 

I suppose he was joking when he talked 
like that, but Sparrow seemed to think he was 
in earnest. I've heard about faith-healing 
— a chap I know says that if you don't believe 
you've got a bullet in your leg you haven't. I 
should call that a tall order, but there must 
have been something of that sort of thing 
about Sparrow, because faith very nearly did 
work a miracle in Sparrow — faith and hard 
work. Drilling was like the breath of his 
nostrils to him ; he lived for nothing else. 
He certainly was a picture of all he ought not 
to have been when Sergeant Judkins first 
set eyes on him. 

" Where they get some of you chaps from 
I can't think. Half of you seem to come from 
a cripple home, and the other half from the 
county asylum. Look herfe, young fellow " 
— this was to Sparrow — " you don't seem to 
have any legs, not to call legs, but you do 
seem to have ten feet, and sometimes they're 
all rights, when they aren't all lefts. Hadn't 
you got a mother to tell you that a chap has 
only got two feet, and one of them is a left 
and the other a right ? " 

" My brother," said Sparrow, " hasn't got 
any feet of his own ; he was born without 
them ; he's a cripple." 

Sparrow, meaning no sauce, said this with 
a twinkle in his eye which took the sergeant 
aback. For some days he was quite civil, 
even to the chaps in the awkward squad, and 
after drill was over he actually apologized to 
Sparrow. But Sparrow bore no malice, not 
he ! Judkins was one of the finest fellows in 
the world in his eyes — and so he was. He 
loved his job, strange though it may seem. 

" It's my business," I've heard him tell 
* fellows, " to make men — sometimes out of 
nothing at all. You come here, I suppose, 
because you're men inside if you're not out — 
since you've come here, all of you, of your 
own free will, to fight for King and Country. 
To do that to any purpose you've got to be 
men outside as well as in — and it's my 
business to make you." 

The sergeant did his " business," if ever a 
man did ; he even made something of a man 
of Sparrow. There was something about 
Judkins which got into the chaps he handled. 
It wasn't only drill. He was a queer chap, 

and though his language could be as strong 
as you'd ever want to hear, he had some funny 
views of his own. According to him a soldier 
was the noblest work of God — but God had 
to have a hand in the job, or he would never 
be a soldier. I rather fancy that God had a 
hand in Sparrow. He would never have 
been a strong man in a show, but three months 
after enlisting he passed the medical standard. 

That morning, on our march from Purley 
to Hayward's Heath, we were none of us of 
much account — though we started gaily 
enough. Of course, there were some who 
were fit enough for anything when they first 
joined, but they weren't many, and most of 
them were made corporals and sergeants 
right straight away. They looked upon the 
march from Purley to Hayward's Heath as 
nothing but a stroll — I've been told since 
that it's rather more than eighteen miles. 

We had dinner in the open, at a place called 
Crabbet Park. I don't know where the park 
came in. We all marched through a gate into 
a field by the roadside — jolly glad we were to 
get there. The transport chaps had got there 
before we did, so we found our rations waiting 
for our arrival. I had eaten one or two of 
Miss Kershaw's sandwiches on the way, and 
some of the chaps had helped me with the 
others, but the rations were welcome for all 
that. The news got about that we were 
thfere. The same thing happened as in the 
morning : the country-side turned out to 
look at us. All sorts there were, including 
the gentry. Rations weren't the only thing 
we had to eat. There was an idea, I suppose, 
in people's minds that if they weren't going 
to fight for King and Country themselves 
they ought to do the best they could for those 
who were. The fuss they made of us sur- 
prised me. The officers, I believe, went out 
to what they called lunch to the houses of the 
neighbouring gentry ; but I believe there was 
nothing the rank and file might have thought 
of that they couldn't have had. Two young 
ladies came up to me carrying a basket of 
fruit between them — apples and pears and 
bananas and plums and heaven only knows 
what besides. One of them looked me up 
and down. I knew she was thinking that 
for a soldier I was very short — most ladies 
thought the same. 

" Take all you want," she said. " Aren't 
you very tired ? " 

" Fair to middling," I told her ; " but it's 
worth while being tired for this." 

" Are you strong enough to be a soldier ? " 

S: .?tefelf?t)F mmti* a very trying 



I almost laughed in her face. Strong 
enough ? A trying life ? A lot she knew ! 
So I as good as told her. A nice way that was 

1 Excuse me, miss, everyone is strong 
enough to tie a soldier. There is nothing 
trying about the life, nothing to speak of. You 
might as well tell a man that he isn't strong 

enough to marry. Some aren't, but they're 
not many. When a chap does marry he's 
got to be strong enough to look after his wife, 
or what's the good of him ? It isn't a ques- 
tion of inches, or even of muscle. A chap 
can fight for his country or his wife who hasn't 
either j and fight w p ell. It's head and heart, 
and what they call pluck, that does it. When 
some blooming foreigner — German or what- 
ever he may be — comes Interfering, or wants 
to come interfering with what has got nothing 
to do with him — such as your native land— 
if you can't keep him off it — why, what good 
are you ? You don't deserve to have a native 
land, I hope, miss, that when the day comes 
on which a German wants a bit of England 
Til be strong enough to show him that want 
will have to be his [master— if he T s six foot 
three and I'm only three foot six." 

Those young ladies hardly knew how to 
take me. I didn't know how to take myself. 
It isn't my usual way to talk like that— at 
least, it didn't use to be. But since the war 
began and I've joined the Colours something 
has got into my veins which has made me 
different My goodness ! When I think of 
Belgium^ and the way those Germans have 
used it — so far as I can make out for no 
reason at all — and I get on to the idea that 
they w r ould like to use England the same ; 
when a young lady, no matter who she is, 
asks me to my face if Vm strong enough to 
be a soldier, something comes over me which 
makes me feel as if I were going mad* 

" Not strong enough to be a soldier ! 
There are soldiers and soldiers, but I hold— 
and I hold it stronger every day — that there 
isn't anyone living who isn't strong enough 
to do something for his native land when it's 
in peril— even Sparrow's brother, who was 
horn without legs, if be sets his brain to work, 
can do that" 

What do you think those young ladies said 
when I started talking to them like that ? 
They laughed all over their faces ; then one 
of them said to the other : — 

" Eileen, wouldn*t you like to kiss him ? " 

And the other answered, " I believe I 
should. Then w + e should be doing something 
for our native land," The way she looked at 
me out of her black eyes ! "I believe we 
should be strong enough to do it, too," 

The mischievous way in which she said it ! 
Then they both of them laughed out, and 
changed colour— and I changed colour — and 
the other chaps who had been listening— 
which they couldn't very well help doing, 
considering ttc weie.gJL \i) aTmnch and there 
had beeA'm^ l^fey|fcWh^^%My M lfi!ugtied and 



Eileen, wouldn't you like to kiss him?" 

cheered , and there was quite a to-do. There 
was also a good bit of chaffing. line fun 
they made of mc. But I didn't care, T lie re 
has been fun made of me since then. Some 
of them called me " Patriotic Sam '' — but no 
one need be ashamed of a name like that, 
especially at a time like this, when the enemy 
is knocking at the door and you've got to 
rely upon yourself to keep him from knocking 
it down. 

It's my belief that the bit of talk that I 
had with those young ladies did us all good — 
all of us who were near enough to hear. The 
tale was passed round, and I dare say it didn't 
lose in going round. There seemed to be 
quite a rise in the chaps' spirits when we 
started off for the rest of the march. There 
wasn't much said about sore feet, or even 
rusty legs, when we got to Hay ward's Heath, 
They brought us up on a piece of open ground, 
with houses all about it — Muster Green. 1 
remember they called it — and a good name, 
too, considering we were all mustered on it. 

The same thing happened again — the whole 
place had turned out to have a look at us. I 
got billeted with five other chaps in a nice 
house down a sort of private road, A gentle- 
man's house it was ? and very well they did us, 
The next morning word was passed round 
that that was to lie our last day's march ; that 
before night wc were to reach our regular 
training quarters. They say that when a 
horse knows he's making for his stable he 
forgets he's tired and goes for all he's worth, 
I dare say it was something like that with us- 
I know it was with me. Most of us swung 
along in style , through the most countrified 
country we'd seen yet. Dinner w T e had on 
the hill outside Lewes— quite a big town* 
Fve got to know Lewes better since then, and 
I still think , as I did that first day, that it's 
a queerish sort of place. The principal street 
runs up one of the steepest hills I ever want 
to see, with the Downs on top. I didn't know 


hev arc 

} "ii re on them. I 



should think some of the houses in the town 
must be hundreds of years old. We had 
dinner on the Downs ; fine weather it was, 
and beautiful everything looked. Then we 
marched down the hill, right through the 
town. Most of the people, as usual, had 
turned out to look at us, and when we learnt 
that we had only another six or seven miles 
to go a sort of " conquering hero " spirit got 
into us, which I shouldn't wonder made us 
almost worth looking at. Sing, we did, and 
whistle — you'd have thought it was a bean- 
feast setting out, instead of a lot of young 
soldiers just getting to their training quarters 
at the end of a longish day. 

I shouldn't like to go so far as to say that 
the road they took us along was nice to look 
at ; it was too bare of trees and too dusty 
for me. All of a sudden I got hold of a breath 
from the sea. Just at first I couldn't think 
what it was that was blowing right into my 
mouth. There was a south-easterly breeze — 
I knew it because Sergeant Judkins had told 
me it was south-easterly. Then we swung 
round a corner, and I got a sort of salty 
taste on my lips, and a smell which I suppose 
I ought to have known but didn't, which kind 
of bucked me up, and made me feel as if I 
wanted to run. 

" There's something funny about this air," 
said a chap who was marching next to me. 
14 I can't think what it is. I want to open 
my mouth and fill myself up with it. It 
tastes good." 

He opened his mouth and started to fill 
himself up with it, as he said. Of course, 
when he said that I knew what it was. He 
was a London lad — had been in the tailoring 
over Houndsditch way ; a baster was what I 
think he called himself ; spent his life in 
pressing down coat and trouser seams with 
what, so far as I could make out, was some 
sort of iron, which he called a " goose," and 
had never seen the sea in his life. 

" I've always wanted to," he told me after- 
wards, " and more than once I've meant to, 
but something has always prevented me — 
I've either not had the money or the time. 
When you're in my sort of tailoring you don't 
get much of either." 

But I had seen the sea several times ; I 
ought to have recognized the smell first go> 
off. I had had no notion we were going to 
be near it ; I believe I should have marched 
twice as well as I did if I had. Twice I had 
been to Brighton for the afternoon — four hours 
by the briny for half a crown ; three times 
I've been to Margate — by steamer there and 
back ; twice to Clacton — steamer there and 

back. You get plenty of fresh salt air like 
that, and there's nothing I like better. I 
have an idea that I must have been meant to 
be a sailor ; when I get near the sea I want 
to dance and sing and behave silly generally. 
I'm bound to have a paddle, no matter what 
time it is when I get there. I've never had 
time for a regular bathe — but, mind you, if I 
had, I shouldn't wonder if I had one every 

All at once we came in sight of the sea— 
we were marching along the front. It wasn't 
much of a front, not compared to some of 
the fronts I've seen. Then we turned to the 
left, and in less than no time we were on the 
Downs, climbing up a winding road with grass 
on each side. Then the word of command 
rang out : " Halt ! " and we halted, on one 
of the loveliest spots I've ever seen. At 
least, it was my idea of a lovely spot. A lot 
of tents were on our left. It was our camp 
— a real camp ! You may smile, but I didn't 
know till then that people still did live in 
camps. A lot more of our chaps didn't know 
it, either. 

There were tents of all sorts and shapes 
and sizes — some of them big enough for air- 
ships, some of them so small that they hardly 
se&rned big enough for a man. We were all 
halted. And our CO. — that's our command- 
ing officer — had a few words to say to us. 
He told us that that was to be our home for 
some little time ; he hoped we should be 
comfortable, and said that everything reason- 
able should be done to make us so. We 
couldn't expect to shake down at once: He 
didn't expect that many of us were used to 
camp life — some of us might want a little 
time to get used. A camp was a soldier's 
natural home, and if we wanted to be really 
good soldiers — and he felt sure that we all of 
us did — we should be prepared to take things 
as they came and make the best of them. 
We were there to be made men of. Some of 
us might take some making, but he trusted 
that there was no one present who hadn't 
resolved in his own mind that his country 
should be proud of him. Our country wanted 
good soldiers ; this was the hour of her need, 
and he hoped we'd see she got them. Then 
we were told off to our quarters. 

I was one of twelve who were to share 
what was called a bell-tent. Funny it seemed 
when I got into it. There wasn't going to 
be much room to spare. There was a pole 
in the centre to support the tent. Each man 
was to lie with his feet towards it on a mat- 
tress, which was so close to the next that it 
almost touched, and the whole twelve formed 



a circle. They were placed on a sort of 
wooden floor which was made up of what we 
came to call " bed-boards. " Six bed-boards 
there were in our tent, and two mattresses on 
each. This floor wasn't in any way fixed ; 
in fine weather it was taken to pieces every 
morning, and the bed-boards piled on the 
top of each other till the time came to put 
them down again. 

That first night I felt as though I were taking 
part in a sort of fairy tale. The idea that I 
was in a tent, in what was practically the 
open air, on a grassy cliff which was almost 
within reach of the sea — I found that I was a 
different sort of chap to what I thought I 
was — that idea so got hold of me that just 
because of it I couldn't sleep. I think, also, 
that some of the things I learnt about the 
peculiarities of a tent had something to do 
with my wakefulness; 

A faint breeze was blowing, not enough to 
call a wind, but enough to play larks with 
our canvas covering. I learned afterwards 
that the situation on which our camp was 
pitched was so open that the tents were 
affected by the faintest breath that blew— 
with a result, that first night, which was a 
little startling. Some of the chaps weren't 
stretched on their mattresses a minute before 
they were fast asleep. I wasn't — I was in 
the mood to dream while wideawake — dream 
of the wonder and glory of it all. On a sudden 
something happened which I can't describe — 
though I ought to have learned how to do it 
by now. I started up on my mattress ; my 
idea was that the tent was coming down. 
When I realized what it was I was actually 
nervous — it was the noise caused by the wind 
blowing the canvas about. It happened 
each time the air even faintly moved. It 
seemed to me that the tent must be badly 
erected — it did keep on making such a series 
of noises that I was kept in doubt whether 
the next one wouldn't be the last. I learned 
better after a while. I came to know that 
the men who put that tent up were up to 
their work, that nothing short of a tempest 
of wind and rain would be likely to shift it 
from its moorings — but for hubbub ! — no 
tent hands in the world could keep it from 
making a din. It is the nature of tents to do 
that — the larger the tent the more obvious 
it likes to be, to anyone inside it, often without 
the least apparent provocation. Some of 
the chaps slept through the night, that very 
first time, like tops. I scarcely slept a wink. 
Towards the morning the breeze died entirely 
away ; then I did get a sort of a kind of a 
doze. Reveille sounded, and I found myself 

sitting up, wondering if the end of the world 
had come. 

When a man passes from one world to 
another, and the new world is quite different 
from the old, he is apt to find that the 
change wants a bit of getting used to. I did. 
It was a jump from the office to Battersea, but 
that was nothing compared to the change to 
camp life on the cliffs by the sea. I don't 
know how it was, but I didn't seem to begin 
to realize what being a soldier meant until I 
had got a tent for my home. Everything was 
different. The old life had gone. It came 
soon to be hard to realize that it had ever 
been. The world had grown wider, larger, 
fuller, and I had grown with it. I believe we 
all had. Sparrow was always telling me that 
he wouldn't have thought it was possible if 
he hadn't known it to be a fact. How chaps, 
when they read the newspapers, could keep 
themselves from doing what we had done I 
couldn't understand, and I can't. Quite 
apant from war — I hope this is going to be 
the last war there will be in my time — pre- 
paring for war, although one never comes, is 
the finest thing a fellow can do, when he's 
getting to be a man. Don't you believe 
anyone who tells you that it's wicked to fight. 
I take it that there are few people who like 
fighting — I know I don't ; I'd go a good way 
to keep out of a row — but sometimes you've 
got to fight. Look at England now ! We 
should be as good as hounded off the face of 
the earth — all that our own country means to 
us would be no more — if we weren't able to 
rather more than hold our own in the trouble 
which has been forced upon us. 

But quite apart from war, it does a chap 
good to be made a man — a real man — a man 
in the sense a fine soldier is. The making of 
a man in a soldier's sense isn't only a physical 
affair — though, thank goodness, a physical 
miracle is worked in every lad who joins the 
Colours. I don't care if he's an office-boy, 
or the son of the office-boy's boss. It's a 
moral question as well. Look at us training 
on that cliff. Of course we got newspapers, 
and we read them, with the rest of the world ; 
but they meant more to us than to others — 
or we shouldn't have been where we were 
and the others at home. I don't mean quite 
that, but I'll try to explain what I do mean. 

In every paper I got hold of they told us 
Germany had destroyed Belgium — for no 
reason at all, except that they thought it 
would be an easy thing to do and it might 
pay them to do it. They proposed to march 
all over Europe and destroy it. They wanted 
to have every man- Jack under their heel, and 



they were setting about the job with might 
and main. We were to go with the rest. 
When a good chance offered, or our turn came, 
they were going to march through England, 
destroy our cities, play old Harry with our 
homes, and make us part of Germany. We 
were going to have a label marked " Made in 
Germany " tacked on to us. Think of it ! 
All Europe was to be part of the great German 
empire — including us. 

I don't gas, and I don't use strong language 
—I don't like either — but every time I get 
hold of a paper and read about Germany 
fighting here, there, and everywhere at once, 
no language which was ever thought of is 
strong enough for me to use. They were 
wonderful people, those Germans, that seemed 
plain enough, and the worst was that no one 
seemed strong enough to stop them. They 
seemed to go and do pretty well as they 
pleased. They had done for Belgium, the 
country was in ruins, and were doing for 
France — a good deal of that was in ruins 
also ; and France, Belgium, and England 
together couldn't keep them from burning 
and destroying who and what they pleased — 
monuments of ages, of which the world had 
been proud, as well as countrymen's cottages. 
And whose fault was it ? 

I didn't want to lay the blame on anyone, 
but— I knew that the bugle sounded a call 
t for me. Other men might not hear it, but I 
did ; and if I had pretended I didn't I should 
have played the coward. Tom, Dick, and 
Harry might lend a hand in teaching those 
Germans their places* but I certainly ought to. 
It was no good my leaving the job alone, or 
passing it on to others. So far as I knew, I 
might be the only chap who counted ; the one 
who made all the difference ; and if I stopped 
at home everything might be lost because of 
it. England might be treated as Belgium 
and France had been, because there were a 
thousand and one reasons why I shouldn't 
fight for her. There was only one reason 
*hich ought to count — that as a soldier I was 
l&ely to be so little good that my help would 
te a hindrance. The shame of having to own 
that! Some chaps might not mind — it 
fcemed that they didn't ; they kept on stop- 
ping at home on damp nights, drying their 
^at the fire— but I had to mind ; I couldn't 
Wp it ; something inside made me. It was 
news even to myself, but it seemed that I was 
built that way. All I had to do was to make 
Myself worth something to my country, 
that's what we all of us felt who were there — 
and the CO. and the rest of them were out to 
help us do it. 

As things are a man isn't born a fighter ; 
under existing conditions fighting is an art ; 
it has to be taught, even the A, B, C of it. You 
have to learn how to make the best of what 
Nature has given you — your feet, your legs, 
your hands, your arms, your body, your eyes, 
your ears, your head — they all have to be 
trained so that they may be used to the best 
advantage. When you come to think, it's 
extraordinary how many things you do have 
to be taught. For instance, to fight together, 
to give each other the best possible support. 
Twenty men fighting in a body as one man 
will certainly destroy a hundred fighting 
without any regard for each other. And of 
course you've got to learn to shoot. In the 
present year of grace that wants a bit of 
teaching. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers 
have been wiped out of existence because the 
chaps they've met have been able to teach 
them a little — which they have been taught 
themselves — about the handling of guns. 

But what's the use of talking ? You only 
had to see us when we were first formed into 
a line in Battersea Park, and then again some 
months afterwards when we had been made 
into men — and soldiers — to know what is the 
difference between the raw and the fairly 
finished article, and to realize what that 
difference meant. 

It wasn't all beer and skittles at Seaford — 
very far from it; but, though I admit there 
were days of despondency, nearly every night 
I turned-in feeling that I was a better man 
than I had been in the morning. I tell you 
that's a comfortable feeling. To know that, 
though you're not so big as you might be, 
when you start fighting for your country 
you'll be able to fight — like a soldier and 
a man. 

Something I had learnt before I joined the 
Colours spurred me on, I think, more than 
anything else. If German troops came down 
my street, shooting at everyone they met, 
and I, coming back from the office, in a black 
coat and billycock hat, were to shoot back, 
I should be breaking the Law of Nations. 

By the Law of Nations you're not allowed 
to defend your own home if you're a civilian. 
If you so much as carry a gun, it's no use 
your saying you're carrying it to defend your 
mother — you're committing an offence. 
You've no right to defend your mother. 
You'll be committing an offence for which 
you'll be hung at sight, and you'll find it 
hard to get sympathy even from your own 
friends. That's a fact. Look what has 
happened lately over aud over again. Whole 
villages — even towns— have, HHerfiN destroyed 



because some civilian has had the wickedness 
to try to defend his farm, or his shop, or his 
home. Others have had to suffer with him, 
or for him. Look at Louvain. The Germans 
say that they destroyed Louvain, with its 
famous buildings, because some of the in- 
habitants dared to do something to defend 
themselves, together with their friends and 
their relations. In war a man can't fight 
unless he's a soldier ; he only destroys what 
he wanted to save if he does. I couldn't 
believe it when first I heard that it was so. 
It seemed monstrous to regard it as criminal 
if a man attempted self-defence. But I 
learnt the reason by degrees — it's the differ- 
ence between war and murder. In war a 
soldier sets out to fight. He warns you what 
to expect. If you also are a soldier he will 
fight you while there's any of him left to fight ; 
but he will observe the rules of the game. 
War, it has been said, is the greatest game in 
the world, and has to be played fairly ; and, 
in spite of what you read sometimes in the 
papers, it mostly is. A soldier won't shoot 
you if you yourself are not one ; you could 
walk through the thick of the battle and no 
one, except for very special reasons — which 
would probably be to your discredit — would 
try to do you hurt. Soldiers fight soldiers 
only, or the world would become a shambles. 
Soldiers on both sides can fight for King and 
Country just as long as ever they please, and 
after the actual fighting is over they look after 
each other's wounded and try to do the best 
for them they can. 

If you're not a soldier, the man who is does 
not expect you to behave as if you were. 
You're behaving like an assassin, a coward, a 
cur, if you do, taking a mean, despicable 
advantage, trying to save your own skin at 
any price. If you don't become a soldier it's 
as good as an announcement that you don't 
propose to associate yourself with the fighting, 
however it may go, whatever may take place. 
If you intend to do something to defend yqur 
mother or your country — it's the same thing 
— it's quite easy. You have only got to make 
your intention known. You'll win the respect 
of every honourable man ; you'll have your 
name inscribed on the Roll of Honour. Think 
it over. Suppose you were one of our chaps 
and ordered to Germany, and found yourself 
in a part of the country in which there wasn't 
a soldier for miles. If you liked, you being a 

body of fighting men, you could wipe every 
man, woman, and child off the face of the 
earth ; but the inhabitants being all peaceful 
civilians, you'd do nothing of the kind. You 
wouldn't lift a hand against them ; you 
wouldn't even load your guns. You'd take 
it for granted that they're decent folk pro- 
posing to observe the rules of the game. 
What would you think if, taking advantage 
of your confidence in them, they were to shoot 
at you from behind hedges and walls and 
murder a lot ? Wouldn't you call that 
murder ? And wouldn't your comrades be 
entitled to treat them as murderers ? If that 
sort of thing were to go unpunished you'd 
have to shoot everyone you met. Your only 
safety would lie in destroying the entire 

When that became clear I started thinking 
with might and main. If the Germans were 
to invade England I shouldn't be entitled to 
fire a shot if I wasn't a soldier. That would 
never do. The idea of being prevented from 
behaving as if I were an Englishman kept me 
awake at nights. So I became a soldier. I 
earned the right to do all I could for my native 
land. Those cliffs overlooking the sea saw 
me doing it. There was no make-believe, 
no shilly-shallying, no shirking. Day after 
day, week after week, we worked — most of 
us as we had never worked in our lives before. 
We got good, well-cooked food and plenty of 
it, health and strength, rest when our day's 
work was done. If there is anything better 
than the rest that comes after such work as 
ours, I don't know what it is. We knew that 
the fate, the safety, of our native land lay in 
our hands, that we were the heritors of a great 
birthright — England's glory, which had come 
down the ages, increasing in splendour as it 
went, until, in the progress of time, it had 
become entrusted to our keeping. It was our 
business — it ought to be our pride — to keep 
it safely, to pass it on to those who are 
coming after us not only unsmirched, but 
shining brighter than when it reached us. 

The Germans were going to destroy Eng- 
land root and branch, were they ? Well, we 
would show them. We had no feelings of 
malice, but when they talked like that, and 
acted as if they meant it, we'd do our best to 
teach them a lesson. We were being taught, 
on those cliffs overlooking the sea, how to set 
about it. 

[Further experiences of Sam Briggs as a soldier will appear next montti.] 
rv f f^i k i^ f\ri|i [. » Original from 


"As F 

unny as 

They C 

ey *uan. 


In our Christmas number, instead of asking one of our well-known comic artists to edit this section, we 
undertook, for a change, to do it ourselves, and accordingly invited the most eminent humorous artists 
of the day to send us what they considered their most successful drawings So many responded to this 
request that we are able this month to publish a second selection, which we feel sure our readers will 

consider to be in every way as amusing as the first. 

Aunt: "Tommy I How cruel I Why did 
you ait that poor worm in two?" 
Tommy : l * He seemed so lonely." 

fir prod wad fry th* tpecial permitwitm uf the Pruprieton 
of " Punch." 

First Urchin : * ( See, 'Erb, a aireoplane l n 
Second Urchin : " Where ? " 
First Urchin: "See, there— that loose bit." 

R* irmluect by the sprxinl permUtivn of ih* Pmprieton of " P^wc*/" 


Short-sighted and short- tempered Pleas ure-seeker* who has just got a minute Lo catch his train, 

standing al what he Lakes to be the end of the bookings jflice queue* 


y , «*/rr«/««J by ihA tpatimt t xTtui**U]* of the Proprietary »; "i'lmdi/ 




Timiuns {trying a new form of holiday) : *' Silly 
ass I must *a been not to go to Brighton with Emma 
and the kids!'* 

bv permi««m 0/ !h /*nJ«m Opinion-'" 


Harassed Hostess t "Do you dance, or are you a walnut?'* 
Rtprvduttd kg the wpcciil pennittfan of tAe PnpritteTa 0/ r, ]ffei|d£rO ITI 


Rmpduetit hg the weeii 




■■ f 



J 1 


Shrieks from the Nursery: "Come along, 
mother ; we've dug to I he other side of the world, and, 
mother — there's a man there l Ti 




Ereathijsss Urchin: "You're—wanted — dahn— our — court— and bring a hamb'lance ! " 
Policeman: "What do you want the ambulance for?" 
Urchin: " Muvvcrs found the lidy wot pinched our doormat.!". .^ 

Rmv&**4 to t>* ****( ^rFP..j,ji4»i. o/ th€ nw^p^f ty^^i C H I 1 J * N 



BARGAIN : Two -scat er* with most of the accessories, only done fifty miles, water-cooled engine, 

owner giving up driving. 


Reproduced by the §petmt permitnon ©/ the Proprufeiri of " Punch." 


The Artist who ** Carried On " in spite of his chair. 




' hM$eu Roberta 


problem to his parents and 
a weariness to everyone else. 
He believed he had come 
into the world for amusement, 
and he failed to get it His 
father was there to find money 
and Ills mother to make excuses* Colonel 
Arbuthnot might have forgiven him if he 
had succeeded in anything y but he played 
golf badly, shot worse ^ and when he tried 
polo lamed his ponies and battered his 
opponents, to say nothing of his own side. 
He wanted everything without working or 
paying for it. He would do nothing for 
himself or for the country. He said he hated 
the Army j loathed the Navy ? and had no use 
for the Diplomatic Service, He was a long, 
thin, lanky loafer, and showed every sign 
of becoming something worse. 'His age was 
just twenty-one and his favourite subject 
was his health. 

" What Fm to do with Tom fairly beats 
me " groaned the Colonel B< His mother 
spoiled him while he was young, and now 
when she's got some sense it's too late." 

His friends said sternly that Tom ought 
to be made to do something, 

** I wish you'd try it," said Tom's father, 

" Give him an allowance and turn him out," 
said a stern parent, who had two sons remit- 
tance men in California, 

" Get hold of somebody who has some 
influence over him," said another friend. 

i{ Nobody has and nobody ever will have/ 1 
returned the hopeless warrior. 

And then somebody proposed that the boy 
should be sent abroad with a bear-leader. 
But, though he had the bear, the ideal leader 
*as hard to discover. The Colonel decided 
to take advice from a friend in Hurley Street* 

" Find me 
the man I 
want and I'll 
pay him any- 
thing you 
like," he said 
to Dr* Curzon* 
i( You tell me 
that there's 
with Tom, ex- 
cept that he's 
and physi- 
cally slack. 

But he's irremediably selfish, and thinks the 
world was made for him. What can one do ? 
Can you find me the right man ? A chap who 
lives down our way said, * Take him out to 
Western America and make him shoot bears 
and live in the open air. J He thought a 
healthy life might bring him to his senses," 

And Dr. Curzon nodded. 

" I'll find you the man," he said, * ( if you 
will give him absolute authority to do as he 

And the Colonel shrugged his shoulders. 

" If he can make something out of nothing," 
he said, " that's all I ask- A little more, and 
Tom will refuse to get up in the morning 
without being carried to his bath. He wont 
even shave himself, and my man has to put 
his boots on," 

" Come and lunch wkh me to-morrow/' 
said Curzon, "and I'll bring my steam-roller 
with me," 

" Your steam-roller?" said the Colonel. 

" To flatten out your boy," said Curzon. 

And on the morrow the Colonel met the 
steam-roller at a big West-end restaurant, 

*' Let me introduce you to my friend Dr. 
Griggs," said the Hariey Sfxeet physician, 


- i 

2I 4 


Griggs was not a big man, but he was 
broad and obviously strong. He had very 
shrewd, rather deep-set eyes, and if a good 
jaw really denotes determination there was 
no more determined man in town. He ate 
his lunch with determination, and until he 
had finished it declined to speak. When it 
came to the coffee he opened his mouth for 
other purposes than eating, 

" Colonel Arbuthnot, 1 understand from 
Curzon that you want me to take your boy 
out to the West and try and make a man of 
him. Is that so ? " 
■ N That is so/' said Colonel Arbuthnot. 

" 1 am to do just what I like with him ? " 

u Whatever you please/ 1 said the Colonel, 

" There's nothing wrong with him phy- 
sically, Curzon, is there ? " asked Griggs. 

" Nothing," replied Curzon, M He's quite 
sound and fairly healthy, but slack and thin 
and rather hypochondriacal and stones under 
his proper weight," 

M I'll have a look at him," said Griggs* 

" You mustn't look as determined as 
that/' said Curzon. " If you do you 11 
frighten the boy;" 

But Dr. Griggs sniffed, 

" Even yet you don't know me, Curzon/ 1 
he said. " I can be as mild as milk ; I can 
he milder than milk. If you like you can 
be present, and you won't be able to differen- 
tiate me from cream. I shall lay myself out 
to get hold of this young fellow. Ill make 
him think I'm the most amusing and pleasant 
and weak-minded person 
in the world. He will 
probably go to his pals 
and say he can wind me 
round his finger." 

" Can you really do all that ? " asked the 
Colonel * c From the look of you I should 
hardly think it possible," / 

* You don't know me either," said Griggs, 
smiling. *' I've been at this game for years, 
as Curzon will tell you. Of course I have 
had failures, for you can't make a man out of 
a monkey, But I maintain we are all of us 
ven* much the creatures of our environment. 
I'll be his environment, and when I cease to 
be 1*11 pick him one. You bring him along." 
Two or three days later Mrs, Arbuthnot 
persuaded her son to escort her to London, 
She wanted to see Dr, Curzon* And the next 
day Curzon took Tom out to lunch, 

" A very jolly friend of mine may turn up/' 
he said. " You'll like him, Tom, He's been 
everywhere, done everything, seen everything, 
and he's one of the kindest and best men you'll 
find on the earth- I think vou J ll rather like 

And Tom did like him. During lunch he 
told him all about his health, but before it 
was over he was listening with open mouth* 
Griggs told him stories of every part of the 
world and all the people in it, 

" I get on with everybody/' said Griggs ; 
mildly, " even the savagest tribes. If you 
treat people as they should be treated they 
take to you at once. Have you ever done 
any shooting, Mr, Arbuthnot ? " 
( * Only birds t you know/' said Tom- 
He might have mentioned one gamekeeper, 
two friends of his father's, and about six dogs. 
" Oh j birds ! " said Griggs, rather con- 
temptuously, * ( I wish you were coming with 
me to Western America* I'm going there 
next week. It's a beautiful country, I'm 
going to do myself well, too." 

He wasgoingtodoitat the Colonel's expense. 

" I've got three 

or four hired men 

waiting for me, 

one a real old 

hunter. There'll be 

plenty of sport and 

a jolly good camp* 

All I want is 

another pal with 

me. I suppose your 

father wouldn't let 

you co me j would 

he ? Naturally, it would cost 

a good deal," ^ 

s I don't think he wo ^' 

said ( urzon .intervening; (i and 

I'm quite certain Mrs, Arbuth- 


.not wouldn't." 

KAVS A L00K " "'"•' "'" ""'""UNIVERSITY OF KcRBST "* ? " 




Tom, falling into the trap. " If I wanted to 
come I just would." 

" Oh ! " said Griggs, " I shouldn't like you 
to go against your father or your mother, so 
don't let us talk of it. I've got another man 
who can afford it. I'm going to see him 
this afternoon. And that reminds me, we 
have been sitting here talking for ages. 
You see, you and your young friend are so 
jolly entertaining, Curzon, that I really forgot 
the time. By Jove, I must go ! Well, 
good-bye, Mr. Arbuthnot. I hope we'll meet 
again some day, and if ever you want to go 
big-game hunting, you just speak to your 
father. Dr. Curzon will tell you all about 
me, what a scoundrel I am, and all the rest 
of it, you know." 

And with that Griggs shook hands and went 

" Awfully jolly chap that," said Tom, with 
a superior air. 

" Not bad," said Curzon, casually, " and 
very easy to get on with. I could tell you 
stories about him from now till midnight. 
A great man for big game." 

" I've often thought I'd like to do some 
big-game hunting," said Tom, " if I were 
only strong enough." 

" Oh, you mustn't think of that," said 
Curzon. " It would upset your mother fright- 
fully. Think of your duty ta your parents." 

" Dash my duty to my parents," said Tom. 
" If I want to go I shall. You as good as said 
I was much better. I shall tell the guv'nor 
so to-day. I really think I will go with Griggs. 
I always did want to see things, you know." 

" I never heard you say so befoire," said 

" Oh, haven't you ? " said Tom. " Well, if 
I haven't said it I've often thought it." 

When he went home next day with his 
mother, he walked into the smoking-room, 
stood up against the mantelpiece, and said : — 

"Look here, guv'nor, I'm sick of this. 
I am going out to Western America with 
Curzon's friend Griggs." 

" Oh, no, you're not," said his father. 

" Oh, yes, I am," said his son. 

" Your mother wants you at home," said 
the Colonel, sternly. 

" And I want to go abroad," said Tom. 

" You're a selfish young dog," said the 
Colonel, " but you can go and be hanged." 

And on this agreeable basis it was arranged. 
For his mother, having talked it over with 
Curzon, and also with Griggs, raised every 
possible objection, and cried bitterly. Thus 
she made it absolutely certain that Tom would 
stick to his intention. 

Without doubt, the preference and liking 
shown for him by Griggs flattered Tom 
immensely. They went round London to- 
gether for a whole week, and Tom actually 
did tell one of his particular pals, who revealed 
the conversation to the Colonel, that he could 
wind Griggs round his finger. And indeed 
it seemed that he could, for Griggs did every- 
thing that he suggested. In the matter of 
the outfit Griggs had some difficulty in per- 
suading Tom, whose ardour was extreme 
when money was to be spent, from buying 
a battery sufficient to slay aU the game in 
America, to say nothing of Africa. They 
started for New York inside of a fortnight 
after Griggs had first heard Tom's name. 
Mrs. Arbuthnot wept till the tickets were 
bought, and his father anathematized him for 
an ungrateful dog, thus keeping him up to 
the mark. 

Tom told Griggs his parents were an 
unenterprising lot. He often wondered how 
it was the old man had ever been a soldier. 

" All parade ground, I expect," said Tom, 
contemptuously. " Thinks of nothing but 
his comfort." 

" Ah, they kept you at home too long," 
said Griggs. " It was good of you to stand 
it. No doubt your health requires care. 
But, of course, there's a point where one's 
duty to one's parents comes into conflict 
with one's duty to oneself." 

" Of course, there is," said Tom. 

On the whole Griggs was glad Tom did 
not suffer from seasickness. It gave him 
a certain sense of pride when he saw other 
people incapacitated. But his freedom from 
this common ailment left him at liberty to 
gamble in the smoking-room. There he was 
introduced to the domestic game known as 
poker, and lost twenty pounds the first day 
and thirty on the second. Before they 
reached Fire Island he had been skinned of 
all his ready money. This was done not 
only by a common sharper, but also by Griggs 
himself, who had his own purposes in view. 
The doctor was a far-seeing man. He sym- 
pathized with Tom, and said he had had very 
bad luck, but to encourage him told him that 
he would some day be a great hand at poker. 

" I -wish I was a good player myself," said 

As a matter of fact, Griggs knew more of 
poker than of pathology, and as much as 
he did of the psychology of a young megalo- 
maniac. In the small hours of the last morn- 
ing before they reached the Narrows he 
played the swindler who had robbed Tom, 
and got the money back with a great deal 




more than interest. And then 
he took his opponent aside, 
and said : — 

" If yau live for a few more 
years j and play poker hard, 
you will know as much about 
it as I did when I was 

But he told Tom that the 
poker-playing gentleman had 
cleared him out. It was there- 
fore necessary for them to go 
straight to their destination 
without tasting any of the 
flesh-pots of New York. 

" New York/ 3 said Griggs, 
" is an extremely dull place 
after London, It'd give you 
the hump, There's nothing 
doing, and it's very moral , 
almost puritanical. We'll 
keep it till we come back 
from the West, Tom." 

" Oh, very well/' 
said Tom ; " but I 
always thought New 
York was said to be 

"Only financially, 
only financially/' 
said the doctor- 
As they travelled 
West Griggs in- 
structed his victim 
in the ways and manners of Western 

+l They are a bit apt to trample on strangers 
who don't hold their end up/' said Griggs. 

" Oh, are they ? " asked Tom. " Do they 
like Englishmen ? " 

** They admire them immensely " said 
Griggs, who knew very well that any English- 
man had to prove himself in the West before 
he was considered a man. 

" Wbat are their manners like ? " asked 
Tom. " I have heard people say they are 
very rough," 

But Griggs shook his head* 

" That's a misunderstanding. On the out- 
side they appear to be. They're essentially 
courteous, considerate, and confiding. They 
have a great respect for birth, Tom, and the 
one thing they lament in America is the want 
of an aristocracy. Of course, people will tell 
you the exact opposite, but don't you pay 
any attention. That's their humbug. They 
grieve they haven't a nobility." 

Thus, in the course of three days' travelling, 
Tom was instructed in the nature of those 


with whom he was to spend some happy 
months. The fact that he was the scion of a 
noble family ensured him the respect of all 
who dwelt in the Rocky Mountains, If any 
unlikely contretemps happened , such as a 
conductor addressing him as, <f young feller/' 
Griggs assured him that that was the custom 
of the country, and equivalent to the common 
adulation of an English guard. When a 
hard-headed old moss-back collogued with 
them at a wayside station where they had 
been delayed by a wash-out, and told them 
that he had a poor opinion of the English, 
that his opinion of them was mean to a degree, 
Tom's hackles rose } but Griggs put his 
powerful hand on his shoulder and whispered 
in his ear : — 

<£ This, my boy, is a common type of mad- 
man in the West ; you must treat him as if 
he was perfectly sane." 

When they were again safely in the cars 
Griggs said that there were some whose envy 
of the superiority of the English was so great 
that it put them off their mental balance. 
And Tom said tie quite understood that, 




His sense of his own superior! ty grew hourly 3 
and the doctor encouraged it, Hut Griggs 
said to himself : — 

" Pride comes before a fall. I believe I 
am on the right track*" 

Within a week of their arrival on the 
Pacific Slope they were camped in a valley 
of the Rockies. The party consisted of 
Griggs and Tom, a quiet and solid old hunter 
whose name was Gibbs, a hardened youth 
with a humorous and satiric eye. known as 
the '* Kid/' an odd Cockney called Smith, 
who had been on the Slope for many years, 
and a half-breed , whom Griggs had known in 
British Columbia. Before they went into 
the hills Griggs had a talk with these men. 
What he said was : — 

" Look here, we're going hunting with a 
young fellow I've brought from England, I 
want you to say nothing and saw wood, so to 
speak, when he shoots off his mouth. Don't 
forget it's a medical case and Tin out for 
a cure. You mustn't mind his manners, 
because he hasn't got any. Just grit your 
teeth and be good till I give you the word. 
I'm going to make a man of him. He's really 
sick, but as full of himself as a bull moose 
when he's feeling gay, and he knows nothing. 
Tin going to teach him, and maybe you can 
help me. When he's made to work and 
weighs near two hundred pounds you'll think 
I've worked a miracle. Will you take on the 
job ? " 

And the Kid, when he laughed and said, 

smoked himself black in the face. Occa- 
sionally he went out, fired a shot or two, 
missed everything and came back and 
groused. He sniffed at the men's manners , 
at their ways, at their language* He often 
corrected their faults of speech and told them 
they didn't call things by their proper names. 
They went to Griggs and said a little more 
and they wouldn't be able to stand it. But 
Griggs said : — 

'* Boys, remember our bargain. You don't 
know what's going to happen, and I do. ?t 

And Tom got more and more bumptious ; 
he was frightfully rude to the doctor, and 
said : — 

"Look here, Griggs, who's paying most for 
this — I and my father or you ? " 

This was said at the camp fire one night, 
and there was a dead silence save for a kind 
of strangled groan from the Kid. But all 
Griggs said was : — 

" All right, Arbuthnot; have it your own 

Nevertheless, nothing disturbed the doctor's 
good humour ; he came up in the morning 
as cheerful as a chipmunk. He encouraged 
Tom to tell the camp all about himself and 
his health, about his father, about his noble 
ancestors, and about the money that the 
family possessed. And the boys listened in 

** Anything to please you, doctor,' 
answered for the crowd. 

So long as the weather was finis* 
and the feeding good Tom Arbuthnot 
almost enjoyed himself. He often 
forgot to talk about his digestion. 
He regarded himself as the chief 
of the party. The more self-assertive he 
became the milder Griggs grew. Even the 
silent old frontiersman remarked on this. 
But Smith ? the Cockney T said : — 

** 'Old on ? Gibbs; therell be a circus 
presently, or I'm a sucker! " 

The men found they had a lot to put up 

with. It was not so much what Tom said or 

did as what he didn't do. He wouldn't do 

anvthing. He loafed about the camp and 
VdL *u*.-M. 


silence, but they wished they knew what 
Griggs had up his sleeve. They yearned for 
Tom's downfall and wondered how it was 
going to be engineered. The next day after the 
row with the doctor Tom went out with Gibbs, 
and after missing three excellent chances 
said it was the old hunter's fault, And Gibbs, 
who had hardly spoken the whole day, at last 
opened his mouth. What he said was ■ — 

" L *M7dF#feff * lth yoa k 



that you reckon you kin shoot and you cayn' t 
shoot. You cayn't shoot for sour apples, my 

And Tom turned on him and gave him the 
sack there and then. But old Gibbs only 
stared at him and laughed silently. 

*' Don't you dare laugh at me," said Tom. 

And the unrepentant Gibbs, forgetful of 
Griggs's injunctions, said : — 

" What else can I do when I look at you, 
sonny, and hear you shoot off your mouth ? " 

Griggs patched up a difficult peace that 
evening, and when Tom was asleep in his 
tent he held council with the others. 

" Doctor, this cayn't go on," urged the Kid. 
"He called me a silly ass this very day. A 
slab-sided hoosier like him to call me a silly 
ass ! Ain't it time we just told him what we 
thinks of him ? " 

44 It's coming," said Griggs. " What did 
he say to you, Smith ? " 

" Oh, me, sir ? " said Smith. " 'E allowed 
I couldn't cook for 'ogs, that's what 'e let 
on. And 'e says, * 'Ere, you,' and * Now, 
then,' and 4 'Urry up/ as if 'e was Gawd 
A' mighty and me no more than a crawler. 
I'd give a month's pay to be let punch 'is 

And Griggs laughed. 

* ; Do you think it'd do him good, Gibbs ? " 
he said to the old hunter. 

And Gibbs shrugged his shoulders. 

" What, me, doctor ? Ain't I out of it ? 
Didn't I get fired the other day on Baldy ? " 

44 When are you goin' to let us tell ? im what 
we thinks of 'im ? " asked Smith, eagerly. 
44 Oh, when ? " 

" I don't think it'll be long," said the 
doctor. " I hoped to do without it. I 
thought the boy might have panned out 
better ; but if he doesn't behave more like a 
man you can say what you like the day after 

" And if that doesn't work ? " asked the 

" I've got a plan," said the doctor. 

" Give us a pointer, sir," urged the Kid. 

But Griggs shook his head. 

44 It 11 keep, sonny; it'll keep." 

" My notion," said the Kid, " is that a 
son of a gun like that ought to be slung out 
on his own. This is a comfor'ble outfit, this 
is, plenty of hash and everythin' a man wants. 
Look at his outfit and the way he rigs himself 
out ! Why, his clothes make me sick. Them 
knickerbockers and them ribbed stockin's ! 
Oh, he gives me the pip. Last out o' the 
blankets and first at the grub pile is his 
motter. And the voice of him, too ! Oh, 

listen to him, the toney way he chins, 
bloomin', bally Henglishman ! " 

44 I'm an Englishman, Kid," said Griggs. 

44 Well, you may be," said the Kid ; i4 but 
you've got over it." 

44 Have I ? " asked Griggs, with a smile. 

44 Clean," said the Kid, earnestly. 44 Ain't 
he, Gibbs ? " 

And Gibbs nodded approval of this tre- 
mendous praise. 

44 Englishmen," said the Kid, desiring to 
develop the subject, " mostly reckons to 
know a dollar's worth on the total expenditure 
of one red cent. They comes loafin' about 
in this country, sayin' 4 Haw ' and 4 Heear ' 
and 4 1 say,' as if they owned the whole 
goldarned Slope. They looks at us kind of 
contempshus, not savvyin' what we thinks of 

44 You make me very humble, Kid," said 
the doctor. 

44 There's no need for you to be," returned 
the Kid, warmly. 44 You're just as good as 
an American. There isn't a man in the camp 
that wouldn't say the same." 

44 Thank you," said Griggs ; 44 thank you 
very much, Kid." 

44 That's all I've got to say, but I own I'm 
lookin' forward to the day a'ter ter-morrer," 
said the Kid, u when I can turn my tongue 
loose on the derned sucker yander. If he 
says too much to me, doctor, may I plug him ? 
Oh, do let me plug him ! " 

44 Not unless he hits you," said the doctor. 

44 Oh, I'll see that he hits me," said the 
Kid. " He'll be the first man that hasn't 
tried to when I've turned my tongue loose. 
I've got a gay, good tongue when I let it go. 
Oh, I've seen them dance ! I should say so. 
My tongue's as good as dance music." 

44 Well, we'll see what happens," said Griggs. 

44 'E let on to me 'e could box," said Smith, 
scornfully. 44 Can e, boss ? 'Ave you ever 
seen 'im with the gloves on ? " 

44 Never," said the doctor ; 44 but he's 
getting a bit stronger than he was. He's 
got the makings of a tough man in him, if 
I'm on the right track." 

It was curious how wrong thijjgs went 
the next day. Tom's pony was lame. This, 
possibly, the half-breed could have explained. 
A piece of string or deer-sinew tied tightly 
round the fetlock and hidden under the 
hair will make any horse lame without doing 
him any harm. The coffee at breakfast was 
villainous, and the beans were of an appalling 
saltness. Tom's temper rose rapidly. He 
emptied his coffee mto the creek, hurled his 
plat* 0^^ ,^| jtH|^jsaid :- 



" If things can't be done better, I shall 

Nobody said a word, not even Smith. 

For the first time Tom was the earliest 
to be ready to get off the camp, but when he 
expressed his desire that 
Gibbs should accompany 
him the old hunter looked 
at him with a lack-lustre 
expression and said : — 

11 What, me? Oh, no, 
Mr. Arbuthnot, not arter 
what occurred a while back. 
If you hanker arter shoot in' I'll put you up 
a large mark fifty yards off, on them rocks, 
and lam you the use of a rifle/' 

Tom turned in a sudden fury to the doctor. 

u Look here. Griggs, I've had enough of 
this. You sack this fellow." 

M He shall go tomorrow/' said Griggs, 
quietly, " or at latest the day after," 

** We 11 , you see he does/' said Torn, 
" Who's paying for all this, I should like 
to know ? " 

And with that he put his rifle on his shoulder 
and left the camp. 

M Oh, Vs a dear boy/* said Cockney Smith. 
" I love 'im. 'Ow f k parents must love Mm, 
too. What did you bring ] im r ere for ? boss ? " 

** To educate him, Smith/' said Griggs* 

" Eddicate 'im?" said Smith. u Eddicate 
J im ? Oh, mv word, I wish I 'ad 'is eddication 
in 'and." 

And the Kid smiled, 

11 We'll start it ter-morrer, Smith ; the 
doctor said we was to start it ter-morrer. 
If I ain T t allowed to take a hand in that young 
sucker's eddication ter-morrer I'll do the 
same as him, I'll just rise up and say, 
4 I cay n't stand it no more ; I'll jiick up the 
whole show and go hack to hum/ ' 

Gibbs and the doctor came back in the 
evening with two bears and a gor *:. Tom's 
jaw fell, for he had come empty-handed. 

fi Why can't I get anything ? " he de- 

And Gibbs said, " Do you wish to know, 
Mr, Arbuthnot, why you cayn't do as well 
as the doctor and me?" 

** Yes/' said Tom, angrily, " I do wish to 
know. It's my belief you're keeping it all 
to yourselves." 

" Oh, no, Mr Arbuthnot, sir" said Gibbs* 
" It's becaze you cayn't shoot. It's becaze 
you ain't the least notion of still huntin'. 
You walks through the woods as proud as 
a buck elk. You coughs and you sneezes. 
You treads on dead timber, and generally 
behaves as if things was deaf. But, sonny, 

things ain't deaf, nor blind, nor fools. That's 
why you cayn't get nothin*. That's why 
you prob'ly never will pet nothing Me and 
the doctor here has tried to lara you the 
last ten days, but you ain't larnt nothin\ 

"he rmptied his coffee into the crugk and 
hurled his plate of beans after it," 

Mr. Arbuthnot, you never will larn not bin' . 
You couldn't shoot a rat in a barn, unless you 
cotched him in a trap first and loosed off at 
him with a double-pronged scatter gun, with 
a handful of buckshot, at about one yard's 
distance. That's my turn- turn, and now you 
have it" 

Tom turned round and went straight into 
his tent. 

14 Gibbs/' said the doctor, ** I've known 
you ten years, and I don't think I've heard 
you say so much in all that time as you've 
said these hist two minutes. 7 ' 

And old Gibbs scratched his head, 

" A man gets wrought up at times," he 
said ; " at times he gets wrought up." 

It via* not a happy camp, and yet Smith 
and the Kid sang after dinner and seemed 

u Id be fair delirious with joy," said the 
Kid, M if ter-morrer was here, Ter-morrer 
is what I looks forward to, Ter-morrer is my 
joy -day." 

And Tom, who was sitting sulkily within 
three yards of him, wondered what he 

"I'm dead feared Til die before ter-morrer/' 
said the Kid. " That's the way that things 
take me, I look forward with fear when 
happiness is on the wing, That's my nature," 

£t What are yer look in' forward to. Kid ? " 
asked the Cocknev, grinning. 




" To turnin' my inward self loose/' said 
the Kid, i( That's my joy. I feel as if Vd 
been tied up ? cinched as tight as if I'd been 
packed on a meweL But ter-morrer is the 
day of liberty. Oh, give me liberty or give 
me death ! " 

That night the doctor sat by the fire smoking 
till it was quite late. Before he turned in 
he went to the men's tent and spoke to them. 

" Look here j boys^ 1 don't want you to say 
anything to Mr. Arbuthnot to-morrow that 
he could take objection to, unless he makes 
trouble. Do you understand ? " 

And they said they savvied. But the 
Cockney whispered to the Kid :■ — 

" Say nothin' ! Oh, Til say nothing Kid^ 
but the boss never said nothin' about the 
corffee ■ T Gw do yer think, Kid^ a dollop o 1 
salt would go in corffee ? " 

The Kid knew perfectly well how it went 
next morning at breakfast, 

" Oh^ Lord f I'm poisoned ! 3f said Tom, as 
he spluttered and spurted the coffee all over 
the place. 

t( Why, what's wrong with my corffee ? " 
asked Smith, 

« There was nothing wrong with his or any- 
body else's except Tom's. 

" If yours is wrong, it must have been an 
accident/' grinned the Kid, 

(f Accident be hanged ! " said Tom. " I 
believe you did it on purpose. Smith. 3} 

iK What, me do a tiling like that a pur- 
pose ? " said the aggrieved cook* " And me 
a cook ? " 

" You aren't a cook ! " roared Tom, 
" And what's more, you sha'n't cook forme 
any longer/ 5 

" For you ? " said the Cockney, suddenly 
contemptuous. '* I ain't cookin 5 for you, 
my son; I'm cookin' for the doctor/ 3 

" Don't you dare say c my son ' to me/' 
said Tom, furiously, 

As he spoke, Griggs rose and walked out 
of the camp, and never looked round, but 
strolled up the creek with a pipe in his 
mouth. They saw him out of sight. And 
then the Kid rose up. 

" No, Smith; 1 said the Kid, * s don't you 
dare to call Mr, Arbuthnot l my son,' You ain't 
respectful. Just think what a fine chap he is, 
Cayn't he shoot just and cay n't he hunt, and 
ain't he rich, as he's always tellin' us ? Think 
of his father and his grandfather what's an 
earl. How the girls must love him ! Don't 
you call him ' my son/ Smith, You leave him 
to me. I'm just a-workin' myself up to tell 
him what I think of him. Til tell him a whole 
lot when I get warmed to it," 

But he never got a chance of warming to it 
that day, for Tom, whose temper was com- 
pletely gone, rose up and went straight for him. 
The ingenuous Kid was taken unawares. 
Tom's fist got him between the two eyes, and 
down he went. 

u Whatto ! A rough 'ouse ! iJ said Smith* 
And truly it was a rough house. The Kid 
rose from the ground almost before he got 
there, and grabbed Tom, Down they went 
rolled right over the breakfast 
and across the fire, A large hot coal stuck 
to the back of Tom's jacket and began to 
frizzle. The Cockney picked up a bucket of 
water and poured it over both of them* In 
the meantime the old hunter sat perfectly 
quiet and never moved more than an 

eyelid until they 
disappeared into the 
store-tent, and there 
rolled over and over. 
The tent bulged and 
swung and finally 
collapsed, with the 
two of them still 
under it, fighting in 
a cloud of flour and 
amid the clatter of 
pans. And the 
Cockney danced out- 
side and roared at t he 

on, koru, i'm poisoned \ f SAID ^^v' ERSI TY F MICHI^PffJ °* *" s v0 ' ce : — 



"'Go it ? Kid 1 Go it, Tom Arbuthnot I " 

And Gibbsj thinking it was at last time to 
interfere, rose and advanced to the front. 
Presently from beneath the canvas there 
appeared a leg, 

" That's the Kid's laig, ain't it ? " asked 

And with that he seized it and draped 
him from beneath the canvas, and set him 
on his feet/ A few moments later Tom 
Arbuthnot emerged. They were both covered 
from head to foot with flour and were abso- 
lutely blinded. Dr, Griggs 
came back to the camp to 
find them both trying to get 
the flour out of their eyes 
in order to renew the fight* 
The Cockney was lying on 
the ground , rolling over and 
over in a paroxysm of laughter. Even Gil>bs 3 
who stood rubbing his chin, chuckled audibly, 

" What's this about ? " asked the doctor^ 

** He hit me/' said the Kid. 

i4 So I did/' roared Tom, l+ and I'm glad oi 
it. He was insolent, and I won't put up with 

" You wait till I get the flour out of my 
eyes., sonny/' retorted the Kid, 

11 Gome j that's enough of it/ 1 said 
the doctor ; " well have no more. 
What's come to the tent ? " 

And Smith explained what had hap- 
pened. The Kid went down to the 
creek to wash the flour out of his 
eyes and ears and hair. As he w T ent 
he -remarked : — 

*' 51 y joy-day doesn't seem to have 
been the success I reckoned on," 

It seemed less a success when he 
looked at a broken glass and found 
that he had two black eyes* But there 
were compensations in Tom Arbu t li- 
no t's face. 

" Look here/ 1 said Griggs } M this 
kind of thing can't go on* What did 
you strike him for, Arbuthnot ? " 

lb Because he was insolent," said Tom. 

M Were you insolent. Kid ? " asked 
the doctor. 

4i What, me insolent ! " said the Kid. 
11 Me insolent to a thing like that ! I was 
just beginnin 1 to think of tellin' him what I 
thought of him, when he rushed me." 

" Well," saia the doctor, " I think you'd 
better shake hands. You seem to have come 
out tolerably level in the scrap." 

" I don't mind shakin' hands/ 1 said the 
Kid ; generously. 



"I'll see you hanged first ! " said Tom, 

Griggs said something to Gihbs ? who took 
his rifle and walked oflF up the creek. Then 
the doctor spoke to Smith and the Kid, 

" Fix up that tent, boys/ 1 he said. t( I'll 
have a talk to ilr. Arbuthnot," 

( * I don't want to talk to you " said Tom, 
* I've had enough of you. You seem to 





have brought me out here to make a fool of 

" No/' said Griggs, iL I brought you out 
here to make a man of you. The first sign 
of a man ? Arbuthnot* is to know how to treat 
others. You don't seem to be able to get on 
unless you have your own way all the time. You 
want to be treated respectfully, don't you ? " 

" Why, certainly 1 do," said lorn. 

u On what grounds? 1 ' asked Griggs > 
pleasantly, u * Because you're worthy of it ? 
Are you anything, boy ? Can you do any- 
thing ? Do you know anything? Id like 
to tell you now why you came out with me. 
Do you know why ? " 

u Because I wanted to T J) said Tom, sulkilv, 

" Oh, no J " said the doctor, £( That wasn't 
the reason. You came out with me because 
your father hoped a little experience in a new- 
country might make you a little more possible, 
a little less selfish, a little less full of yourself, 
a little easier to get on with, a little more of a 
man. You thought it was your own notion* 
I dare say. Didn't you ? n 

But Tom didn't answer, 

*' You were mistaken " said the doctor, " if 
you did. It was Dr. Curzon's idea and mine. 
You don't know that it*s my work to take 
hold of cubs like you and try and make men 
of them. I've succeeded with dozens, my 
boy, but you're the toughest contract I've 
had for some time* But I 'II succeed with you . 
too. For your father has paid for it, and III 
carry the contract through, somehow or 

" Oh, will you ? " said Tom, savagely. 
"I'll see you don't, I'm going back to- 
morrow. I'm going back to-day." 

M Have you any money ? : ' asked Griggs j 

" No, and I'll thank you for some/ 7 said 

But the doctor shook his head. 

lt Oh. no, my son ; you'll get none from 

" I insist on it! tT said Tom, " I insist on 
it ! I must have money, I must ! You don't 
think I'm going to stop with you after all 
this, do you ? ?t 

And Grigszs smiled. 

(k No; + he said, " I don't think so, I think 
it very probable we shall have to part/' 

4i Then you'll give me money ? " said Torn. 

" I'll tell you about that to-morrow/' said 

" I'll write home at once and tell my people 
all about you/ 1 said Tom Arbuthnot. 

" You'd better go and do it/' said Griggs. 
u I have some letters to write myself/ 7 

And with that he turned away and went to 
his own tent, where he did write a letter. 
When it was done he placed it in an envelope, 
addressed it to Mr- Thomas Arbuthnot, and 
put it in his pocket* 

About an hour later 
Tom came and stood 
outside his tent, 

4i I want to know when 
we are going to leave this 
place/' he demanded, 

" To - morrow/' said 
the doctor, shortly* 

"I'm glad to hear it/ 
said Tom, " but I prefer 
to go to-day/ T 

t4 You cant/' said 
Griggs, (< Gibbs is 
out, and won't be 
back till night/' 

J[K riCKKl) UP 


"™" H "■"'" 





Nevertheless Griggs set the Kid and Smith 
packing up the camp. Tom took his rifle 
and went out and did not return till evening. 
When he got back the rest were having 
supper round the camp fire. The only happy 
persons were the Kid and the Cockney. 

" A gay outfit this," said the Kid. " This 
hyer experience of mine's worth two black 
eyes. To think I should have had my eyes 
blacked by an Englishman ! I never thought 
I should live to see the day." 

" I could black them," said Smith. 

" Oh, you ! " said the Kid, scornfully, 
" You ain't nothin', Smith. You ain't an 
Englishman and you ain't an American. 
You're a freak, you are." 

And Tom Arbuthnot never said a word. 
As the Kid declared later, there was a frown 
on his face like a mountain thunderstorm. 
He retired early, and never noticed that the 
Kid had fetched in the cayuses from the 
mountain mqpdow in which they had been 
grazing. When it was obvious that Tom was 
fast asleep, they packed things rapidly , saddled 
up, struck the other tents, and then the Kid, 
who knew what he had to do, stole quietly 
to Tom's and took away his rifle. By twelve 
o'clock, when the gibbous moon shouldered 
its way over a south-east peak, all was ready, 
and the doctor, taking a five-dollar bill and 
the letter which he had in his pocket, pinned the 
two of them, with an old bowie knife, to the 
stump of a pine outside Tom's tent. By that 
time the three other men were mounted and 
well off the camp, and Griggs followed in their 
tracks. They vanished into the forest by 
the trail that led down by the roaring creek. 

The. healthy life that Tom Arbuthnot had 
led in the Rockies made him sleep like a saw- 
mill hand. But somehow the next morning 
he woke up at six o'clock, when it had been 
good broad daylight for over an hour. The 
camp seemed very quiet, so he rose and put 
his head out of the tent. He rubbed his eyes 
as if he were still dreaming when he found all 
the other tents gone. 

" Why, what's this ? " he said, in alarm. 
" What's this ? " 

And then he saw the knife and the letter 
and the five-dollar bill. 

44 By Jove ! " said Tom. 

He pulled the knife out and read the 
letter : — 

'* You wanted money. Here's five dollars. 
If you want more, work for it. It will do you 
good. I still think you've got the makings 
of a man in you. When you are tired of 
staying in camp, and cursing me, you had 

better follow the trail we came up by, till 
you get to Simpson's Lake. Simpson might 
give you a job. Then there's Johnson's saw- 
mill at the Gap, and you can take my tip 
that if those places don't suit you, there's 
plenty of work to be found. Humping lumber 
will do you more good than medicine, and 
finding your place among men may make you 
one. I have hopes of you, and I wish you 
luck. — Your sincere friend, Eustace Griggs." 

It was a cold day for Tom Arbuthnot. He 
sat down on a fallen pine and stared angrily 
at the universe. 

" This— this is horrible," he said. " I 
don't understand it. I wish I had hold of 
that man Griggs. Oh, I've been treated 
awfully. I wonder how I shall get home. 
Five dollars — what good is five dollars ? " 

And then he hoped that perhaps this was 
no more than an evil joke on the part of the 

" He wants to give me a fright," said Tom. 
" When he comes back I'll tell him what I 
think of him." 

But he heard nothing save the ceaseless 
roaring of the creek that ran past the camp. 

" I'll— I'll give him till to-morrow," said 
Tom, panting. 

But the loneliness got on his nerves, and 
he decided he would not give Griggs till 
to-morrow. He packed up what he could, 
and took the track for Simpson's. 

And the Kid, who had been sent back by 
Griggs to watch what happened, came down 
into the camp after Tom had left it and 
laughed consumedly. 

" The face of him," said the Kid, " when he 
saw our surprise party was just too sweet. 
But it wouldn't surprise me none if the doctor 
was right arter all, and that bein' on his own 
would make a man of him. He had a look 
on him I'd never seen before. He'd kind o' 
got his teeth set, like as if he was huntin' 
Griggs. Oh, but the doctor is gay and good ! " 

And he followed Tom down the trail. 

The next morning Tom interviewed Mr. 
Simpson, who was an old friend of Griggs. 
He told the farmer his woes, and requested 
him to be good enough to lend him enough 
money to return to England. 

" Sonny," said Simpson, who was a typical 
old pioneer, with a chin beard, " you cayn't 
raise no money from me. Dr. Griggs opened 
up t9 me the truth about you, and the poverty 
of your parents, and his own charity in taking 
care of you, and your onparalleled ingratitude 
for all his care and goodness." 

And Tom choked.f rom 



"Young feller/* said 
Simpson, solemn ly T u if 
you will reeflect for a 
few moments, do you 
reckon I am likely to 
believe you rather than 
my old and proved and 
religious friend, Dr. 
Griggs? Reeflect, my 
son — reeflect/' 

And Tom reflected, 
and choked down the 
expression of his rajre* 

" All the same, it's 
not true, Mr. Simpson. 
Give me enough money 
to telegraph to my 

£t I should be goin 1 
against the strict and 
reeligious injunctions 
of my friend if 1 done 
so ? sonny /'said the old 
pioneer, "Reeflect 
and ca wnsider that 
money may be ob- 
tained by work, and it's 
my turn - turn there's 
no other way of gettin' 
it. Some can be ^ot 
by beggin* and some 
by cheating but the 
more you beg and the 
more you cheat, the 
less you raise, my son. 
Would you like a job 
on my farm ? " 

M No/' said Tom, "I 
dorvt want a job. I 
want to get back to 
England/ 1 

And Simpson 

"Fine place, Eng- 
land/' he re m arked * 
u It's about four 
thousand miles bo Noo 
York and the kentry 
is a free kentry* You 
kin walk to Noo York, my son/ 7 

" Why, it'd take months ! '* said Tom, with 
open eyes. 

'* So tramps and hobos hev informed me/ 
said Simpson, quietly* il But if you object 
to hittin* the road, you kin go to work. Til 
write you a letter to Johnson, at the Gap ; 
you kin work in bis mill. Some hard work 
would do you good. That's what the doctor 
allowed. He let on you w T as very full of 


yourself and full of 
nothin 1 else. He urged 
me to speak my mind 
freely unto you. Will 
you have a letter to my 
old friend Johnson ? M 

And Tom actually 
took it. 

u Oh, I reckoned you 
would/' said Simpson* 
11 It's a case of have 
to! You've larnt 
suthin* already, my 
son. Don't you reckon 
you've larnt suthin?*' 

u VV hat have I 
learnt ? M asked Tom, 

u I'll leave it to you 
to cawnsider on the 
trail/" said Simpson* 
u WhiUfcyouVe hittin" 
the trail to my friend 
Johnsons you'll have 
a whole tot o f time to 
cawnsider the p'int." 

Six weeks later Mrs, 
Arbuthnot should have 
received a letter from 
her son, addressed 
from — 

" The Saw Mill. 

Johnsons Gap, 
" Washington, U*S. A. 

M Dear Mother, — 
Dr. Griggs has turned 
out a scoundrel. He 
brought me out here 
and treated me as if I 
was no one. Then he 
took alt my things and 
deserted me* without 
money, in the middle 
of a most desolate sea 
of mountains* All he 
left me was an insolent 
letter and five dollars. 
I have been compelled 
to take a terribly hard job in a saw-mill, 
along with the most awful men, who are 
very rude to me* Nobody believes my father 
is rich, nobody will lend me any money to 
come homo with. I am working twelve hours 
a day and my hands are frightfully sore* and 
I sleep in a pigsty* If I ever get hold of 
Griggs I will murder him. Please send me 
some monev so thai; I ciui come home at once/' 



was due to the fact that Mr. Johnson sent it 
on to Dr. Griggs, who was enjoying himself 
in Tacoma. And Johnson sent a covering 
letter with it : — 

" This pup o' yourn will be a dog some day. 
We are making him quite useful. I should 
reckon he weighs twenty pounds more than 
when he came. He's beginning to be able 
to handle lumber without dropping it on his 
toes, and the boys tell me he has the appetite 
of a grizzly. He's had two fights already. 
He's beginning to stand chaff, and so he should, 
for he gets a whole lot of it. But he told me 
yesterday that when, he gets big enough and 
strong enough to give you the father and 
the mother of a cow hiding he reckoned to 
do it. 

" P.S. — I reckon he'll be here quite a while 
yet, because, remembering your advice, I set 
our best gambler on him, and month by 
month I reckon Bill will skin him. This was 
a fine notion of yours, and Bill's very grateful 
and sends his best regards." 

Griggs chuckled when he read this letter. 

" If a saw-mill doesn't kill a man it makes 
him," said Griggs. " I've worked in one 

Two months later Johnson and Simpson 
both came over to Tacoma on business, and 
stayed a day with Griggs. 

" How's my patient getting on ? " asked 

" Fust class — couldn't be better," said 
Johnson. "It's done him a world of good. 
You'd hardly know him. He's quick and 
active and lively. The last thing he done in 
the hash-house was to stand up and say, 
* Look hyar, boys, I'll stand as much chaff 
as you care to pour out, so long as you say 
nothin' oncivil about the King o' England ; 
but the man that says anythin' oncivil about 
the King o' England, I'll knock his goldarned 
brains out with a cant-hook.' And ever 
since that the boys have been that monarchical 
as would surprise you." 

" What does he say about me?" asked 

" I was keepin' that," said Simpson, 4< for 
a surprise for you. He says to me, says he, 
the other day : — 

" c When I gets hold of Dr. Griggs I'll give 
him ondiluted hell ! " 

" ' Will you ? ' says I. 

" ' I will that,' said the pup. 

" And I said, * What, my boy, would you 
thump your benefactor ? ' 

" ' My what ? ' says he, fairly jumpin'. 

VoL xlix.— 29. 

by Google 

" ' Your benefactor/ says I ; ' the man 
that made a man of you.' 

" * It isn't his fault or his doin' that )ou 
reckon I can do some work now/ says he. 

" And I fair laffed. 

" ' Why, you goldarned sucker/ says I, 
smilin', ' what do you reckon he done it for ? ' 

" And he looked at me with them big blue 
eyes o' his'n and says, kind o' surprised : — 

" ' What do you reckon to mean, Mr, 
Johnson ? * 

" ' What I says/ says I. 

" * You don't mean to say ' he begins. 

" And again I laffed. 

" ' Don't you reckon to feel like a man 
now ? ' says I. * Cay n't you do suthin' ? 
Cayn't you earn money ? Why, you're a 
useful man/ says I, * and if you like to stay 
with me you kin stay.' 

" But he considered some inside of himself, 
and says : — 

" ' Why, no, sir ; I must be gettin' home 
soon, I'm thinkin' o' goin' into the Army.' 

" ' And why wasn't you in it long ago ? ' 
says I. 

" And he turned his head about, this way 
and that way, like a b'ar over a blueberry 
patch, as if he was hayf ashamed of himself, 
and then he says : — 

" * I dunno ; I ought to been, but I was a 
derned young fool/ says he. 

" And again I laffed some. 

" * Why, that's what the doctor allowed/ 
said I. 

" And after that he went away very 
thoughtful, doctor." 

And Griggs laughed. 

" He did, did he ? I've worked a cure, 
Johnson. Say, old chap, I think you can 
take off your gambler after a while, and let 
the boy make a little money. In a few more 
months he'll be fit to go home." 

" He's mighty anxious to go," said John- 
son, " becaze, whatever he writes, his mother 
just sends back no more'n a few words to 
say she's glad he's well and gettin' on so 

" I wonder whether he'll punch my head 
when he meets me in England ? " said Griggs, 

" Not a derned punch," said Johnson. 

And a year later, when a very brown and 
healthy young man, weighing thirteen stone, 
met Dr. Griggs in his father's club, he went 
up to him with a shamefaced expression and 
said, after a curious little pause of hesitation: — 

" Thank you, sir ! " 

Original from 

Our Greatest Sailors 
ana Soldiers. 


ITH new names of imperish- 
able glory being made on both 
sea and land in this greatest 
of all wars, the question 
presents itself — Who are the 
greatest commanders in the 
British Navy and Army of 
the past whose achievements may be equalled, 
if not excelled, by several of those taking part 
in the Titanic struggle of to-day ? One or 
two names, of course, leap to everybody's 

tongue — Nelson and Wellington, Drake and 
Marlborough. But what of the others fittest 
to bear them company ? Is there any 
consensus of opinion upon the subject among 
the experts, as represented by distinguished 
officers versed in naval and military history 
and writers who have made the work of our 
Fleet and our Army their special study? 
To put the matter to the test, we have sought 
the opinions of a number of representative 
experts of both kinds. 


Let us first present the result as regards 
the senior branch of the national service. We 
submitted to each gentleman the following 
list of twenty names of our most distinguished 
naval commanders, as they appeared to us : — 

ii. Hawke. 

12. Hood. 

13. Dundonald. 

14. Cloudesley Shovell. 

15. Anson. 

16. Howe. 

17. KeppeL 

18. Duncan. 

19. Byng (Viscount Tor- 
ring ton). 

Col ling wood. 

6. St. Vincent. 

7. Rooke. 

8. Hawkins. 

9. Raleigh. 
10. Frobisher. 

20. Lord Bridport. 

The authorities were asked to reduce this 
list to ten by eliminating such as they thought 
proper. They were also asked to substitute 
any name or names if they considered there 
had been wrongful omissions. 


the most popular naval man apart from 
those now engaged on active service, whom 
we did not venture to trouble in the matter, 
unfortunately found it impossible to make a 
choice. " With so many splendid and his- 
toric names/' he declared, " I can make no 
elimination.' ' 

Admiral the Right Hon. Sir EDWARD H. 

who has seen as much active service as any 
living man, sent us the following list with 
a very interesting letter : — 

1. Nelson. 

2. Drake. 

3. Blake. 

4. St. Vincent. 

5. Rooke. 

6. Hawke. 

7. Hood. 

8. Anson. 

9. Howe. 
10. Duncan* 

by L^OOgle 

" It was quite easy," Sir Edward remarks, 
" to put in about a quarter of your list and 
to strike out the same number. 

"It would interest me," he adds, " and 
perhaps others, to have the general opinion 
on who are the most distinguished British 
Admirals who have flown their flag since 
1850, including only those men who have 
had war service at some time of their career. 
The number might be small — say, five. I 
should put first Sir William Parker. If the 
period was fifty years from now, of course 
he and one or two more would be cut out. 

" If your list," said Sir Edward, in con- 
clusion, " were of * navigatprs,' you could 
not leave out Cook, or perhaps Sir James 

Admiral Sir William Parker commanded in 
the Chinese War in 1841. In 1847-50 he 
commanded the Mediterranean Fleet. 




In compiling his list 

Admiral Sir REGINALD 

who may he regarded as 
the " Father " of the Aus- 
tralian Navv, which was 
formed in accordance with 
his special request for the 
Commonwealth Government, 
has not thus distinguished, 
it will be seen j between 
the navigator and the corn* 
pander* Cook's name being 
included : — 

I* Helm. 6, St. Vincent. 

3, Drake. 7- Kaleigh. 

3. Blake, 8. Hawke, 

4. Rodney. 9. Duncan. 

5# Colling wood* 10. Captain Cook. 

u I believe/' declares Admiral Henderson, 
" that to all but the studious the names oE 
Nelson and James Cook will pass to posterity 
the longest," 


Chichele Professor of Military History at 
Oxford, has established his reputation as an 
authority upon both the Navy and the Army, 
and much interest attaches to his list : — 

1. Nelson* 6* St, Vincent. 

3. Drake- 7, Hawke, 

3. Blake, 8. Hood. 

4* Rodney, 9' Anson* 

5. Colling' wood. 10* Howe* 


who, since his retirement from active service, 
has published two important books on his 
profession, " The Art of Naval Warfare " and 

u Sea Power and Other 

Studies/* declined to elimi- 
nate any name from our list. 
On the contrary ^ he wished 
to add Herbert , Barhamj 
Exmouth, Hoste, Broke, 
Lyons , and Codrington. " To 
Barbara," he declared, u the 
credit^ of the dispositions 
which facilitated the winning 
of Trafalgar is due* Exmouth 
was a remarkably brilliant 
frigate commander as a cap- 
tain, and won the consider- 
able Battle of Algiers in 1816, 
Hoste won the Battle of Lissa, 
besides doing other good ser- 
vice. Broke was captain of 
the Shannon; Codrington commanded the 
British Fleet in the bloody victory at Nava- 
rino in 1827; Lynns (the first Lord Lyons) 
commanded with great credit in the Black 
Sea in 1 855-6-" 

11 I have crossed out the names which may 
be best spared," says 


another well-known naval writer, " though it 
is difficult to particularize. I would suggest 
one or two modern names — Admiral of the 
Fleet Sir Frederick Richards as the great 
naval administrator, and Lord Charles Beres- 
ford as the fighting sailor and the greatest 
leader of men (together with Roberts) of our 

6. Rooke* 

7. Hawke. 

8, Hood. 

9, Dundonald ot Anson* 
10. Howe, 

1* Nelson. 

2. Drake, 

3. Blake. 

4. Col ling wood. 

5. St- Vmrent. 





11 The names I have left in," writes 

the naval expert, whose articles in the 
Observer during the present war have 
attracted wide attention, "are inevitable, 
though I should myself be inclined to exclude 
Howe, whose contribution to naval strategy 
and tactics was not great* It rather goes to 
mv heart to strike out that fine, staunch 
seaman, Collingwood, but he is hardly among 
the giants* I think , however, you should 
include Kempenfeldt, who, as a scientific sailor 
of his day, was probably above all his con- 
temporaries. His victory over De Guichers 
off I'shant is one of the most brilliant feats 
in the War of American Independence too 
often forgotten.' 1 

i* Nelson. 6. Hawk*. 

a, Diake. 7. DundonaLd. 

3. Blake. 3. Arisen. 

4» Rodney* 9, Kempenfeklt. 

5. St. Vincent* jo. Lord Brieiport, 

" You ask rne," writes 


who in and out of Parliament has proved 
himself a most able critic of naval affairs, hl for 
great sailors (not great admirals, who are 
necessarily the men who have commanded 
fleets in war), and that enables me to include 
Dundonald. In making a list arbitrarily, as 
it must be 3 the sailor cannot be considered 
apart from the history of our Empire, We 
watch his influence not merely in the course 
of events and the prestige of his country, 
but also in the body of traditions handed down. 
Some were born in a time when success came 
easily ; others had to contend not merely 
with skilful enemies, but with political apathy 
at home — e.g., Torrington or Rodney, What 
we have to look for is genius in leadership in 


editor of the celebrated annual, "All the 
World's Aircraft," who has probably to his 
credit more books on naval subjects than any 
other living author, sent a series of interesting 
annotations on all the names in our list. 

" Nelson, Drake, and Blake/' he says, " are 
retained for obvious reasons. 

" I have kept Rodney in* I had crossed 
bim out by accident ; he was famous for 
breaking the line. 

" Collingwood I have crossed out, as he 
was not associated with Trafalgar, and after 
the death of Nelson managed to lose some 
ships. Also he was a man singularly unable 
to he en rapport with his officers and men," 

St. Vincent (retained) " was of course the 
famous Jervis at the Battle of Cape St 
Vincent, and more famous still as the organizer 
of the Trafalgar campaign." 

Rooke (struck out) si is best known for the 
capture of Gibraltar f hut that was an accident. 
He had a certain number of troops with him 
intended for attacks on Barcelona and Cadiz j 
but j thinking he had not sufficient troops, 
tried Gibraltar instead, and took it practically 
without opposition, as the Spaniards had no 
garrison to speak of there." 

Hawkins (struck out) u was mainly a slave 
trader when he was not a pirate, and his 
fame haC)titpWS|oft8#mbly exaggerated/ 1 


the face of difficulties and the use of opportu- 

nities, Without interfering with these con- 

siderationsj 1 think my 

list a fair distribution 

also in point of time. 4 ' 

1, Nekon. 

6. Rooke, 

2. Drake. 

7. H;i«ke. 

3, Blake. 

8, Dundonald. 

4. Rodnev- 

9. Anson. 

5. St. Vincent* 

10, Bvng (Viscount Tor* 




Raleigh (struck out) M never really did 
much afloat, His chief fame was won in 
literature. 1 ' 

Frobisher* — lt Cut out as a miner light." 

Hawke* — " Of course left in." 

Hood, — " He and Bridport are one and 
the same. He was made Lord Bridport for 
his services, 5 ' 

In making this statement Mr. Jane falls 
into a curious error. Admiral Samuel Hood, 
first Viscount Hood, was born in 1724 and 
died in 181 6, and among numerous achieve- 
ments he won a great victory over De Grass e 
at St, Kitts in January, 1782. Admiral 
Alexander Hood, first Viscount Bridport ) was 
born in 1727 and died in 1814. After taking 
part in several successful engagements as 
second-in-command , he defeated the French 
fleet off Groix on June 22nd, 1795* Both 
admirals were members of the same family* 

Dundonald (struck out) i( was a most 
wonderful genius , but his chief exploits were 
not under the British flag. Had he not been 
worried out of the British Navy, he would 
probably have achieved fame as great as that 
of Nelson." 

Cloudesley Shovell (struck out) " was a 
lesser light, A good deal of his fame rests 
on ' From Cabin Boy to Admiral/ stories 
about him and the circumstances in which 
he lost his life.** 

Anson (retained) (i was u very great man 
indeed, not merely for his circumnavigation 
of the globe, which was a wonderful feat, 
but also later on as an administrator to the 

Hawke (retained) is (< obvious." 

Keppel (struck out) is a " lesser light, so* 
as you are cutting down, we must let him go." 

Duncan (retained),—" Famous for the 
Battle of Camperdownand the Great Mutiny." 

Digitized by Google 

Byng (struck out).—" A lesser light ; a 
man unable to seize his opportunities." 
r. Nelson, 6. Hawke, 

7. Lord Bridport, 

3, Blake, 

4, Rodney. 

5, St. Vincent. 

8. Anson. 

9. Howe. 
10. Duncan* 

Mr. H, W. WILSON, 

the honorary editor of the Navy League 
Journal, and the author of several important 
books on the Fleet, writes : " I return your 
list to-dav with the ten lesser lights struck 

i. Kelson. 6. St, Vincent. 

2. Drake. 7. Hawkins. 

$. Blake. 8, Hood. 

4. Rodney. 9, Howe. 

5. CoUingWood* 10. Duncan. 

In a footnote to the following li*t 


the Daily Telegraph's naval critic, states : 
tl I should be inclined to bracket Nelson and 
St. Vincent together* The former won our 
greatest victor)' with the instrument which 
the latter j by stern but apparently necessary 
measures, forged." 

1, Kelson* 6. Colling wood, 

2. Si. Vincent. 7. Hawke. 

3. Drake. 3. Hood. 

4, Blake, 9- Anson. 

5, Rodney. 

jo. Howe. 


modestly declares that he has not studied 
11 naval history sufficiently to give an opinion 
that would be of value. There h one name 
you might add to your list — that of 

Original from 




It will be seen that as regards the first 
name, Nelson, there is absolute unanimity. 
There is only one dissentient in respect to 
the second and third names, Mr. Archibald 
S. Hurd, who gives the second place to St, 
Vincent j consequently relegating Drake to 
the third and Blake to the fourth place. 
Anything like unanimity ends here. 

Analysing the votes, we obtain a consensus 
of opinion in favour of the following as 























The following was the list of names sub- 
mitted to distinguished soldiers and military 
experts :— 

ir* Outram . 
i j. Comwallis, 

13. Raglan. 

14. Abeicromby. 

15. Eyre Coote- 

16. Lawrence, 

17. Lord Napier (of Mag- 

18. HilL [rlala)* 

19. Wolsdey. 

20. Roberts, 

1* Wellington, 

2. Marlborough* 

3. dive, 

4- Cromwell. 

5. Napier* 

6. Nicholson* 

7. Clyde. 

S, Havelock. 
9. Moore. 
10, Wolfe. 

Fi*ld-M«-*U1 Sir EVELYN WOOD. 

As that of our greatest living soldier not 
on active service— his seventy-six years, of 
course* made that impossible — peculiar 
interest attaches to the selection of Sir 
Evelyn Wood, who adopts, it will be seen, 
our first five names in the same order : — - 

t* Wellington, 6, Clyde. 

a. Marlborough. 7, Havelock. 

3. Clive, £. Moore* 

4. CromwelL 9, Wolseley. 

5. Napier. 10. Roberts, 

" It is difficult/' Sir Evelyn states, " but if 
I considered longer I should not, I think, 
change any of the names." The veteran 
Field -Marshal, it may lie rioted, has made 
several literary studies of war, such as 

" Cavalry at Waterloo " and " Achievements 
of Cavalry/' 

General Sir IAN HAMILTON, 

from whom we received the next list, bore a 
splendid part, as everybody will remember, 
in the South African War, 1899-1902* 

1, Wellington* 6. Moore* 

2* Marlborough. 7, Wolfe. 

3. Clive. 8. Eyre Coote or Peter- 

4. Cromwell, 9* Wolseley, [borough. 

5. Sir Hugh Rose* 10, Roberts, 

Sir Hugh Rose, whose name Sir Ian lias sub- 
stituted for that of Clyde , was, some readers 
may remember, one of the divisional com- 
manders under Lord Clyde — or Sir Colin 
Campbell* as he then was— in the suppression 
of the Indian Mutiny. Having struck through 
" Clyde " and written " Sir Hugh Rose/' Sir 
Ian Hamilton tersely adds, " without whose 
brains Clyde = o. ? ' 

Lord Peterborough, whom the General 
brackets with Eyre Coote, belongs of course to 
a much earlier period of military history than 
the gallant officer who completed the destruc- 
tion of the French Empire in India in the 
eighteenth century. Charles Mordaunt, Earl 
of Peterborough, it may be recalled, w r as both 
sailor and soldier too, and achieved distinction 







in both capacities during the Continental wars 
of the reigns of William and Mary and Anne. 
The choice of General Sir Ian Hamilton^ 
like that of Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood, 
is based on literary as well as practical know- 
ledge of his profession, as is evidenced by his 
books, " Fighting of the Future ?> and " A 
Staff Officers Scrap- Book." 

Major-General R W. HEMMING, 

who may be regarded as the cavalry officer 
par excellence y having commanded the 1st 
Cavalry Brigade in the Boer War, sends us a 
list which presents some interesting points of 
difference from the two already given :— 

1. Wellington. 6. Wolfe. 

2r Marlborough. 7. Lawrence. 

3. Nicholson. 8. Lord Napier (of Mug- 

4. Hav clock. 9, Wolseley. [dala), 

5. Moore* 10. Roberts. 

Nicholson, it will be note*!, is preferred to 
Cromwell, Havelock to Give, and Lord 
Napier to his namesake of the Peninsular War. 

Our next list comes from 

Colonel R N. MAUDE, 

the author of such classics in the literature 
of war as " The Evolution of Strategy ,? and 
il Cavalry : Its Past and Future " :— 

1* Cromwell, 6. Nicholson, 

2. Wellington. 7. Lord Lake. 

3. Marlborough. 8, Moore. 

4. Give. 9, Wolfe* 

5. Sir Charles Napier. 10. Roberts* 

This list should attract special attention 
in giving the first place to Cromwell and in 
substituting the name of Lord Lake for that 
of Lord Clyde* Lord Lake, whose name has 
become unfamiliar to the present generation, 
commanded the British forces in several 
Indian wars during the earlier part of the 
nineteenth century. 

Digitized by Google 

Lord METHU£N f 

like Sir Evelyn Wood, belongs to the very 
small company of Field-Marshals, and the 
following list, which was sent without note or 
comment, must be regarded as highly authori- 
tative, from the point of view of the practical 
and experienced soldier : — 

1. Welling ton, 6. Wolfe. 

3. Marlborough* 7. Abercromby, 

3. Cromwell. 8. Lord Napier (of Mag- 

4. Sir Charles Napier, 9. Wolseley. fdala). 

5. Moore, 10, Roberts. 

Lieutenant* Colonel the Right Hon. A, M* 

who sends us the next list, is better known 
as a Parliamentarian than as a soldier ; but 
for seventeen years he served in the Coldstream 
Guards , and on more than one occasion in 
the House of Commons he has shown his in- 
terest in, and knowledge of, the British Army, 

1* Wellington, 

2, Marlborough, 

3, Clive, 

8, Wolfe, 

9. Outram. 
10. Cornwall is* 

4. Cromwell. 

5. Sir Charles Napier. 

6. Nicholson* 

7. Clyde. 

11* Abercrornby. 

r2. Lord Napier (of Mag- 

13. Roberts. 

Colonel will be noticed, has not 
found it possible to limit his list to ten names. 

The choice of 

Major-General BETHUNE, 
who made so great a reputation in South Africa, 
and in 1912 was appointed Director-General 
of the Territorial Force. w + as as follows : — 

1. Wellington. 6. Moore* 

a. Marlborough, 7, Wolfe. 

3, Cromwell. 8* Lawrence. 

4* Nicholson* 9* Wolseley. 

5. Havelock* . 10* Roberts, 

" My selection/' writes 


the military expert, the son of a major- 
general , who has had actual experience in 




Photo. 6* EllUftt A- Pr r 


sir chas. napikr. 


the field, both as an officer and a war corre- 
spondent, M owes something to historical 
considerations and a desire to cover the 
ground of our military exploits as completely 
as possible. I would suggest the addition 
of Edward III,, the first soldier to make our 
name as a fighting people respected on the 
Continent* He and Cromwell meant more 
than any other two to our military history/' 

i* Wellington* 6- Clyde. 

a. Marlborough* "■ Wolfe. 

3. Give. 8. Cornwallis. 

4- CromwelL g* Lawrence, 

5. Sir Chat Its Napier. 10. Roberts. 

Major-General Sir COLERIDGE GROVE, 

who is seventy-five j saw a good deal of service 
in Egypt, and acted as private secretary to 
three successive War Ministers, sent us the 
following list :— 

1. Wellington. 6. Moore. 

a. Marlborough, 7. Wolfe. 

3. Give. 8. Abercromby. 

4. Cromwell. 9. Wolsdey. 

5. Clyde. 10* Roberts* 

"The difficulty," said 

Major REDWAY, 

whose commentary on the present war in the 
Globe and elsewhere attracted much attention, 
" is to draw the line when once you descend 
from the standard of Cromwell, Marlborough, 
and Wellington, And to decide between the 
many Indian soldiers one would have to study 
their lives in some detail, as there are so many 
''of them ? and some of the most famous were 
rather administrators than warriors. , , , 
Personally, I don't think great soldiers thought 
much about their country ; they were just pro- 
fessional men, whose business it was to whip 
the enemy, whoever he might be, and to train 
armies as the instruments of their genius." 

i. Wellington* 

2. Marlborough* 

3. CromwelL 

4. Sir Charles ftapier, 

5. Clyde. 





Out ram. 


by Google 

Colonel REP1NGTON, 

the well-known military expert of the Times, 
who sends us the last list, has had varied 
experience in Afghanistan, Burma, the 
Soudan, and South Africa, and also as a 
mi] i tan- attache in foreign countries. 
1, Wellington, 6, Wolfe* 

a* Marlborough. *j. Abercromby- 

3, aim 8. Wolseley, 

4, CromwelL 9, Roberts. 

5, Moore. 10. Kitchener, 

It will be noticed that Colonel Repington 
thinks well to give a place to Lord Kitchener, 
although the list submitted to him, as 
seemed advisable to us, contained the names 
of no living soldiers. It is noteworthy 
that Lord Roberts, who had died just before 
the preparation of this article, and had there- 
fore to be included in our original list ^ is 
favoured by everyone's choice, although, in 
one instance, the writer admits that he 
retains the name in deference to public senti- 
ment ; otherwise he would have struck it 
out instead of Lord HilL Wellington's great 
coadjutor in the Peninsula and at Waterloo. 

Lord Roberts shares this unanimity with 
Wellington and Marlborough, whilst Cromwell 
and Wolfe are each absent from only one list. 
Moore and WolseJey both obtain eight votes, 
and Sir Charles Napier and Clive seven, 
whilst Clyde makes the tenth name with five 

To sum up, the following are chosen by 
the majority of votes of military experts as 




5- WOLFE. 

6. MOORE. 


8. CLIVE. 

10. CLYDE. 




Place a different number in each of the ten squares 
SO that the sum of the squares of any two adjoining 

numbers shall be 

K& f^L equal to the sum of 

the squares of the 
two numbers dia- 
metrically opposite 
to them. Thus, the 
square of 16 (256) 
added to the square 
of 2 (4) in the dia- 
gram make 260 ; 
and the square of 14 
(196) added to the 
square of 8 (64) 
make also 260. Now, 
in the same way, 2 
and the number on its right should be equal to 14 and 
the number on its left (the sum will not necessarily be 
260), and so on. The four numbers given must remain ; 
you have simply to add the remaining six. The puzzle 
is quite easy if properly attacked. 

A French correspondent near the seat of war sends 
me the following entertaining little puzzle. An 
Indian Rajah died, leaving a certain number of 
valuable diamonds. He left nis first son one diamond 
and one-seventh of the remainder, his second son two 
diamonds and one-seventh of what then remained ; 
his third son then received three diamonds and one- 
seventh of what were left over, and so on, the last 
son receiving as many diamonds as there were sons 
and one-seventh of the remainder. This exactly 
exhausted the legacy. The simple question is : How 
many sons were there, and how many diamonds ? 

THERE is a certain district in Sussex where any 
sound and well-proportioned horse may travel, quite 
regularly, thirty miles per day, yet while its off legs 
are going this distance its near legs will unavoidably 
pass over nearly thirty-one miles. It would at first 
appear that the near legs of the creature must be 
nearly a mile ahead of the horse at the end of the 
journey, but the animal does not seem to mind, for, 
as a matter of fact, he finishes his task quite whole 
and sound. Can you explain ? 

The following lines were written by Arthur Connor, 
a prominent figure in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. 
He was arrested, and wrote the verses while in prison. 
He made his escape to France in 1807, where he became 
a general in the army, and died aged eighty-seven. 

The pomps of Courts and pride of lungs 

I prize above all earthly things ; 

I love my country, but the King, 

Above all men, his praise I sing. 

The Royal banners are displayed, 

And may success the standard aid. 

I fain would banish far from hence 

The " Rights of Man " and " Common Sense." 

Confusion to his odious reign, 

That foe to princes, Thomas Paine. 

Defeat and ruin seize the cause 

Of France, its liberties and laws. 
These two apparently loyal verses, if properly read, 
bear a very different meaning. Can you discover it ? 


Solutions to Last Month's Puzzles. 


% The illustration 

(52) shows one way of 

arranging the men 
so that the numbers 
in every straight line 
of four forts add up 
to 100. 

226. — THE IRON 

The inner width 
of a link multiplied 
by the number of 
links and added to 
twice the thickness 
of the iron gives the exact length. Every link put on 
the chain loses a length equal to twice the thickness 
of the iron. The inner width must have been 2 J inches. 
This multiplied by 9 and abided to 1 makes 22 inches, 
and multiplied by 15 and added to 1 makes 36 inches. 
The two pieces of chain, therefore, contained 9 and 
15 links respectively. 

The two missing words are " Asterisk " (" ass to 
risk ") and " Parallel." 

228.— CHARADE. 
The word is Wind-Lass. 

The fifty-two cards 
may be arranged as 
shown to form the re- 
quired two magic 
squares, summing to 
36 and 37 respectively. 
The two squares 
must be 6 by 6 and 
4 by 4, and 
the smaller 
square must 
add up 37 and 
the larger 36. 

I 1 II 

12 | 13 

12 1 13 



*3 | I2 



11 | 1 

13 | 12 

230. — LONG- 

The number 

of bees must 

have been 






9 IO 




4 ! 3 | 2 




7 j 6 | 5 










4 1 3 



6 | 7 j 5 1 6 



1. K to Kt 2 (White), K to R 5 (dis. ch) (Black) ; 2. 
K to B 3, Any move ; 3. Q mates. 

1. K to Kt 2 (White), Kt to B 3 (Black) ; 2. Q takes 
Kt, Any move ; 3. Q mates. 

i. K to Kt 2 (White), Kt to B sq (Black) ; 2. Q to 
B 3, ch, K to R 5 (dis. ch) ; 3. Q to Kt 3, mate. 

1. K to Kt 2 (White), R to B 4 * (Black) ; 2. Q to 
Q sq, ch, K or R moves ; 3. Q mates. 

* If R moves elsewhere, or P advances, White mates 
on his second mp^. 







A Frisian Folk-Tale Retold by W. J. L. KIEHL. 
Illustrated Ly H, R, Millar, 

N the time of King Radbold, 
who, as you know, was the 
first Christian king of the 
Frisians, and held his Court 
at Starum, the capital of the 
country, there lived an old 
nobleman in the neighbouring 
castle of Birgum. This nobleman had three 
sons, the eldest of whom was named Flink, 
the second Tuk. and the youngest Fornim. 
One day he called them together in the grand 
hall of the castle and said : — 




" Sons ! You have now grown up to man's 
estate, I wish you to find some means of 
supporting yourselves, therefore I send you 
out into the wide world to shift for yourselves 
for a whole year, and in that time I expect 
each of you to learn something by which you 
may do me credit." 

The young men looked at one another rather 

blankly. This mission was not exactly to 

their taste. However, there w r as nothing for 

it but to follow their father's command, and 

so they set- out on. their adventurous journey* 
Original from 




The eldest j Flink, went in an easterly direc- 
tion ; Tuk went westward, and Fornim 
towards the south. 

Not Jong after Flink had left his brothers 
he came to a large forest, which grew denser 
and darker the farther he penetrated into it. 
To make matters worse., he suddenly saw a 
hand of robbers coming towards him. It was 
no use defending himself against such a 
multitude, so he just stood still and waited 
until they came up* 

" Hand over all your money and all your 
jewels ! ' J they shouted, as they approached. 

fi My good fellows," said Flink, with a 
cheery laugh , " I have nothing in the world 
to giv^ except myself." 

The robbers promptly searched him, and, 
as they found nothing of value, they decided 
to take him at hus word and to enrol him in 
therr band. Flink, seeing he could do no 
better for himself at the moment than join 
the robbers and learn their art of theft, 
applied himself with such zeal to his new 
profession that the robbers very soon chose 
him for their captain. 

Now, you will say this was not a very proud 
position for a young nobleman , but this 
must be said for Flink — he might be a thief, 
but he was a very honest sort of a thief ! He 
only robbed those who had come by their 
money by unjust means ; he never allowed 
his men to attack the hard-working peasant, 
and often he gave a large share of his spoils 
to the poor and destitute, so that he and his 
robber band were highly respected and much 
beloved by young and old, and only the rich 
wrongdoers feared him. 

Now let us return to Tuk and see what 
adventures befell him. He, too, reached a 
large forest, where he met the wild men of the 
woods. They were clothed in the skins of 
wild animals, and had long, matted hair, and 

Digitized by K*i 

beards right up to their eyes ! They sur- 
rounded Tuk, yelling and dancing, and told 
him they would presently kill him for their 

" I should not do that if I were you/' said 
Tuk, calmly* " You might find me rather 
a tough morsel I will soon get you some- 
thing far better," 

" How will you do that ? " they cried. 
s * We havtnt been able to find any game for 
several days, and we are very hungry ?] — and 
they flashed their long ? yellow tusks at him. 

Tuk saw they had no weapons but a stone 
and sling, and also noticed that they looked 
with great curiosity at his bow and arrows, 
(lose to the spot where they stood there flowed 
a river, in whose clear waters Tuk could see 
the big fish darting to and fro. 

" Come along/' he said to the wild men, 
£i and PU show you what I can do." 

He placed an arrow on his bow, and, as the 
next big fish came darting by, he shot it clean 
through the head. There was a shout of 
admiration from the wild men as the dead 
fish came floating up. They waded into the 
stream and secured it. 

Then Tuk showed the wild men how to 
build a fire and roast the big fish. They had 
the meal of their lives, and were so grateful 
to Tuk that they unanimously proclaimed 
him their leaden Tuk, who saw there was 
no better chance for him than to remain where 
he was, graciously accepted the high office, 
and determined to learn the art of shooting 
so thoroughly that no one would be able to 
compete with him. 

Meanwhile, the youngest brother, Fornim, 
had gone south until he could go no farther 
because of a very wide and deep river that 
blocked his way. However, moored to the 
river's bank, he saw a ship, and thought he 
would ask the captain to take him across to 
the other side. As he stepped on board an 
old woman put her head out of the cabin 

" Well, young man," she criedj " what 
do you want ? " 

" Please/ 7 said Fornim, M I want to ask you 
to take me across to the other side/' 

" What have you got to do on the other 
side of the river ? ,J inquired the old woman, 

" Oh ? nothing in particular," answered 
Fornim. And then he told her how he and 
his brothers had been sent out to seek their 

" Well " said the old woman, kindly , " why 
not stay here on board this nice ship with my 
husband and me ?i t .W& have no children, 




S a 


and we should be glad to have a son like you. 
We will teach you our art." 

M What art is that ? " cried Fomim, eagerly. 

11 It is the art of mending/' said the old 
woman, proudly. * ( The people from all over 
the country 7 bring us their broken pottery and 
everything that needs repair, and we put it 
all together again so that it is as good as new/ 1 

Fornim looked rather disappointed. This 
did not seem the sort of work for a nobleman 
to do* On the other hand, the old woman's 
kindness pleased him; and when, at that 
moment, her husband returned and, hearing 

Digitized by Gt 

what they were talking about, became equally 
pressing in his request that Fornim should 
stay and be as a son to him — well, then Fornim 
decided to remain with the old people and 
learn the art of mending as thoroughly as 

He stayed with them for eleven months, 
and all three were as happy as the days were 
long. Then Fornim took leave of them to 
return to his father's castle as agreed upon. 

Punctually to the hour the three brothers 
returned to Rirgum. and found their father 

awaiting them in the grand hall. As he saw 





them come in he cried, rubbing his hands with 
pleasure, " Welcome home, my boys ! Now 
let me hear what you have learnt.' ' 

Flink required some courage to confess 
to his father that he had only learnt to steal. 
But the old noble seemed in no way put out. 
Tuk, of course, was certain of his father's 
approval when he told that he had become 
so proficient in the art of shooting that he 
never missed a shot. Fornim hesitated 
ai while before he spoke, fearing 1ms father's 
sdorn and his brothers' mockery for so menial 
an art as mending. At last it came out 
rather falteringly. But the old nobleman 
took it in right good part. 

" Cheer up," he said. " No single thing 
that you can do thoroughly well ought to be 
disdained. You never can tell how useful 
this mending may be to you." 

So they were all in right good humour, 
and partook of a hearty supper in the merriest 

The next day the old nobleman had invited 
all his neighbours and friends to a banquet 
to celebrate the return of his sons, and to 
witness a trial of their skill. So when 
all the guests had arrived in the castle park, 
the noble called his three sons, and said to 
them, " Now I want you to show these people 
what you can do. Up in that tree is a mag- 
pie's nest, and on the nest the mother bird 
is hatching her eggs. Now, you, Flink, must 
climb up that tree and steal away an egg 
from under the magpie without her noticing 
anything at all." 

" All right," said Flink. 

He threw off his coat, and was up the tree 
in a moment. Then he carefully bent back 
the intervening twigs and leaves, and took 
one of the eggs out of the nest so deftly that 
the mother magpie never even noticed it. 
The guests loudly applauded this feat as 
Flink placed the egg in his father's hand. 

" Well done, Flink ! " cried the old noble, 
patting his boy on the back. " Now it's your 
turn, Tuk. Flink shall hold the egg between 
his finger and thumb, and you, Tuk, must 
shoot it to bits with your arrow." 

Tuk was ready at once with his bow and 
arrow, delighted to show what he could do, 
but Flink grew rather pale. However, he 
gingerly took the egg and placed himself in 
position, holding it out at arm's length. At 
thirty yards' distance Tuk shot off his arrow. 
It was a splendid shot. Even William Tell 
could not have improved upon it. The egg 
was smashed to atoms, and Flink's fingers 
were not even grazed. Everyone clapped 
their hands and shouted, " Bravo, Tuk ! " 

by V_ 



" Now it's your turn, Fornim," said his 
father. " You must patch the egg together 
again, so that the birds will never know the 
difference, and then Flink will put it back 
into the nest again." 

Fornim at once set about his task. He 
searched the ground for all the scattered egg 
particles. When he had collected them he 
wetted his fingers on his lips, pressed every- 
thing together, and, behold, there was the egg 
as good as new ! It was passed around to 
the whole company, and all declared they 
could not detect it had ever been broken. 
Then Flink replaced it in the nest, and the 
magpie never suspected what had happened to 
it, but hatched it out exactly like the others. 

The guests all rejoiced with the father at 
the skill shown by the three young men, and 
the banquet in the grand hall of the castle 
was held amid much merriment.. It was late 
at night when the last guest departed. 

Before dawn the next morning there was 
a great commotion at the castle gate, and the 
porter came to wake the old noble, and tell 
him there were messengers from King Rad- 
bold, who wished to speak to him at once. 

The messengers, being brought into his 
room, told him King Radbold required his 
help because his daughter had been carried 
away by a great eagle, and, as the king had 
heard of the wonderful things the young 
nobles could do, he thought they might be 
able to bring the princess back. 

At that the old man jumped out of bed 
hastily and called his sons. 

" The king requires your assistance," he 
shouted, u so hurry up." 

Flink, Tuk, and Fornim, ready dressed and 
well armed, soon came running into their 
father's room, and were told the whole story. 

" But," inquired Flink, cautiously, " what 
is to be the reward of him who brings the 
princess back ? " 

" The fact is," declared the messengers. 
" that the Royal treasury is empty, so King 
Radbold says he will reward the hero by 
bestowing upon him the princess herself in 

This idea pleased the three young nobles, 
and, after having ascertained that the eagle 
had flown off with the princess in a southerly 
direction, they set out at once on their quest. 
They journeyed south, the same way Fornim 
had gone once before, and when they came 
to the big river, the old couple, after hearing 
their story, at once agreed to lend their ship 
to their adopted son. They, too, had seen 
a great eagle fly southward across the river, 
carrying something in its talons. 
Original from 


2 3 8 



Original from 

by Google 




So the three brothers sailed up the river 
and crossed to the opposite side, where 
stretched an almost impenetrable forest. 
They moored their boat and went ashore, 
searching the forest in the direction where 
the old woman had said she always saw the 
eagle descend. 

At last they came to a deep cavern, and, 
peering in ? they saw the eagle fast asleep, with 
its head on the princess's shoulder. 

M Now I'll see what I can do," said Flink. 

So he collected a bundle of soft moss and 
cautiously crept into the cave, lifted the 
eagle's head from the princess's shoulder ,, and 
substituted the soft moss. Then, carrying the 
trembling princess in his arms, he crept out 
from the depths into the glad daylight. 

The princess w T as overjoyed at her deliver- 
ance, and thanked Flink again and again for 
having stolen her away so cleverly. Mean- 
while, the whole party hastened to the river, 
got on board the ship, and sailed away. 

Suddenly the sky was darkened as if a great 
cloud had come between the sunlight and the 
earth , and the fugitives, looking up, saw the 
eagle, whose immense pinions obscured the 

M Oh, now we are lost ! " lamented the 
princess, wringing her hands. 

" Nothing of the sort ! " laughed Tuk, 
" Just wait and see what I can do with my 
trusty bow and arrow ! " 

As the bird came nearer he laid an arrow 
on his bow, pointed it carefully, let fly the 
arrow, and down came the eagle, as dead as a 
door- nail- Only, as mishap would have it, 
he fell plump amidships, and the whole boat 
was shivered to atoms. 

Our fugitives squirmed about in the water 
until they got hold of a spar, on which they 

u What shall we do now ? " wailed the 
princess, and Flink and Tuk echoed her 
words. But Fornim reassured them. 

u 1 haven't learnt mending for nothing," 
he said, " Just hold on for a moment, and 
I'll set everything right ! " 

He swam about nimbly, collecting all the 
fragments ; then he wetted his fingers on his 
lips, pressed the bits together, and, behold, 
there was the ship as good as new ! They all 
climbed on board again and sailed gaily 

The princess could not stop praising the 
brothers for their cleverness* 

" At St arum," she said, " vm haven 1 1 any- 
one half as resourceful as you ; so you really 
must come along with me, all three, and 
remain at my fathers Court." 

So they sailed straight on to Starum, where 
King Radbold was overjoyed to have his 
beloved daughter back again. 

M But," began Flink, '* your messengers 
had promised that whoever delivered the 
princess might marry her. Surely you intend 
to hold to this promise ? M 

Radbold looked somewhat troubled. 

" But surely/' he cried, in perturbation, 
"you cannot wish my daughter to marry all 
three of you ! " 

" Well, no," rejoined Flink ; u not exactly 
that. But, you see, I am the eldest, and I 
thought " 

But Radbold interrupted him. 

" As the princess is the most interested 
party in this affair, the best plan will be to let 
her decide for herself.' 

To this they all agreed, and the princess, 
taking a step forward towards Flink, now 
spoke :— 

" A man who lives by theft I can never 
love or respect ! " Then, turning to Tuk, 
she said : " Neither can I love a man whose 
whole art is bloodshed 1 But," she cried, 
stretching out both her hands to Fornim — 
u but you j who bind together that which was 
parted and join that which is sundered- you 
are the chosen bridegroom of my heart ! " 

by Google 

Original from 


\Wt shall he glad t& receive CimitibuU&ns to this section , and to pay for such as an accepted.] 


THE accompanying photograph shows a female 
Asiatic elephant {Elephas indicvs) with its young 
one. The elephant continues to grow for upwards of 
thirty years, and the female is capable of breeding after 


IN gratitude to the birds whose timely intervention 
saved their crops and probably the lives of many 
settlers, the citizens of Utah have recently dedicated 
a monument to sea*gulls, which bears a graceful bronze 
iepresentation of two birds Lighting upon the granite 
shaft. The episode which this strange monument 
commemorates is part of the early history of the 
State* In the year 1S4S the pioneers of Utah saw 
their crops devoured by a visitation of black crickets, 
which descended in countless millions upon the land 
and destroyed every vestige of green* A second crop 
was planted with the same result, and the settlers* 
now on the verge of ruin, saw their promising young 
wheatnelds once more attacked by the pests. Acres 
that were grceq and hopeful in the morning were 
swept absolutely clean of vegetation by ni^ht, and 
starvation threatened the colony, which was at that 
time so hard to reach from the older States, It was 
then that a miracle happened in the shape of a vast 
number of sea-gulls that attacked the hordes of insects 
and destroyed them before the second crop was 
totally ruined. It is interesting to note that a de- 
scendant of one of these settlers was the sculptor of 
the monument, which, in addition to its pair of gulls, 
bears bronze reliefs showing the incident, Fifteen 
persons who witnessed the dedication were among 
those who had seen the ravages of the insects and the 
relief flight of the gulls, — Mr. Charlton Lawrence 
Edholm, 1,353, West 36th Place, Los Angeles, CaL* 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

fifteen years to produce a single young one, rarely f wo, 
at a birth* It was formerly supposed that the younsj 
one sucks with its trunk, but this is not so t and the 
photograph clearly shows it feeding by the mouth from 
the two breasts, which are between the front legs — a 
fact which distinguishes the elephant from most other 
mammals, — Mr* A. Pollard, B irk head, Ardrossan, N.B* 


THE following chess problem, by the late Mr. 
Sam Loyd, the well-known American Puztle 
King, is considered by many to be the most difficult 
two-mover in existence* The solution will be given 
nert month. 

n 1 

• ... y j j 



i * 



fm ;j m igjan 





(""rw^nL'' Original from 






MARCH, 1915. 
Vol. xlix. No. 291. 




course, you dance from 
pure love of art, dear Miss 
Dawnish ? " 

" From pure love of 
money ! " Diamond Dawn- 
ish laughed merrily, with 
an upward tilt of her chin. 
" Degrading, isn't it, Lady Bollingworth ? — 
but a fact ! " 

Plump Lady Bollingworth giggled and 
tapped the girl's arm archly. 

" You naughty, mercenary little thing ! " 
she exclaimed. 

" I am mercenary — and I'm proud of it ! " 

Hugh Gillespie, doctor of the Marina, 
glanced up for a moment from his book, 
struck by the almost exaggerated earnest- 
ness of the girl's tones. 

Miss Dawnish's biscuit-china beauty had 
no particular attraction for the sober young 
Scotsman. Far more interesting was that 
something alien and unexpected which peered 
at odd moments through her Watteau 
daintiness of surface. 

He caught himself listening intently as she 

" I want money frightfully badly, and I 
don't mind who knows it. That was why 
I took to dancing professionally. People 
talk such nonsense about it's being plucky to 
work for a living ; as though I minded any- 
thing, so long' as I can earn enough to buy 
back Ballynihoulihan and make father happy 
before he dies — darling old dad ! " 

There was a throb in the clear voice, and, 

Vol xlix.-3t X 

for the moment, a very tender light in the 
vivid blue eyes. Then Diamond Dawnish 
laughed half-shamefacedly, and flung herself 
back in the long deck-chair. 

" I'm a sentimental little donkey ! " she 
cried. " Whatever will you and Mrs. Went- 
worth think of me, Lady Bollingworth ? " 

" We think that Sir Daniel must be very 
proud of his pretty daughter," Lady Bolling- 
worth answered, with genuine warmth in her 
fat, comfortable voice. 

"And your sweet frankness rather emboldens 
me," Mrs, Stuart Wentworth gushed. " Since, 
of course, advertisement has its uses — and 
there is such a general wish among the passen- 
gers — only one never knows how those in the 
profession look at such things " 

" I believe you want me to dance for you ! " 
There was a touch of laughing mockery in 
the girl's voice. 

" That is just it ! We all want to see you 
dance — if you could give us that pleasure." 

" It's really a question of ' could.' I simply 
daren't whilst the ship is in motion, Mrs. 
Wentworth ; I am such an abominable sailor. 
And we only stop at Gibraltar for a few hours 
in the middle of the day." 

"There's Naples," Hugh Gillespie inter- 
posed, quietly, from the depths of his ham- 
mock chair. " We shall be there for a whole 
day, and until about twelve o'clock at night." 

" Why, that is just the opportunity for a 
little jesta, then. Naples — so romantic ! " 
VThe gaunt and gushing Mrs. Wentworth 
Japped her hands enthusiastically. " And 



perhaps you wouldn't mind, dear Miss 
Dawnish, if I made a collection for the 
Inebriates' Perpetual Home at Swansdown — 
such an excellent charity ! " 

" I shall be delighted. Now, let me see — 
which of my dances ? The ' Dream Fantasia/ 
I think, or perhaps — what a pity ! I can't 
give you the best of all, by far." 

" What is that ? " 

" I should so like you to have seen my 
* Jewel Dance/ but it would be simply 
nothing without the dress." 

" And you have not got it with you ? " 

" No. It's practically all jewels — sham 
ones, of course. But jewels are absolutely 
essential, crowds and crowds of them." 

" But, dear Miss Dawnish, surely we could 
lend you plenty of ornaments ! " Lady 
Bollingworth cried, impulsively 

" Certainly not ! " The girl shook her 
head decisively. " I won't wear anything 
really valuable for dancing." 

" But they could be sewn on. Oh, you 
really must reconsider it ! There is my long 
chain of diamonds and sapphires, and my 
diamond laurel wreath." 

" And my paste butterflies ! " Mrs. Went- 
worth exclaimed. " I should be delighted. 
And Mrs. Brook would lend her emeralds, I 
know* and Mrs. Land that immense snake. 
Oh, do please us by wearing our odds and 
ends, dear child ! " 

" It's very charming of you," the girl' said, 
with obvious reluctance. " Let it be like 
this, then. If everybody is as willing as you 
are, I will wear the jewels for fifteen minutes 
or so, on condition that the stewardess 
sews them on for me as tight as tight can 

" That's settled, then. How charming ! 
And now we'll go and tell everybody the good 
news and collect * properties.' "■ 

The two women rustled away, leaving 
Diamond Dawnish and the doctor alone. 
For a moment the girl sat motionless, her 
chin resting on her hand, her eyes vaguely 
troubled. Then she turned her head slightly, 
met Gillespie's unconsciously intent glance, 
and laughed. 

" So you heard my story, too — such as it 
is ? " she said. 

" Well, I couldn't very well help it, Miss 
Dawnish," answered the young man, apolo- 

"I'm not ashamed of it." The girl spoke 

" You've no cause to be — very much the 
contrary/' Gillespie said, warmly. 

" I wonder, if you understood everything, 

whether you'd say the same ? " The words 
came slowly and reflectively. " I do wonder." 

" I don't doubt it." 

"I do ! " Suddenly Diamond Dawnish 
sprang to her feet and stood looking down 
upon him mockingly. " And so — I sha'n't 
tell you ! Because, although you're always 
so painfully solemn, I rather value your good 
opinion, Dr. Gillespie." 

With another laugh she was gone, leaving 
the young man on a knife-edge between annoy- 
ance and admiration. And such a position, 
with a girl in question, is extremely dangerous. 
The victim nearly always ends by falling — in 

From that moment Hugh Gillespie found 
himself watching, not only the little dancer's 
queer, equivocal moods, but her every look 
and action. He was not the man to act 
rashly ; not the man to be blinded by passion. 
But the passion was there, nevertheless, and 
not so very far below the surface, either. 

As for Diamond, if she cared for the young 
doctor, she hid her feelings even better than 
he. Yet there were moments which Gillespie 
dwelt upon with satisfaction ; moments when 
her vivid eyes softened and the hard curves 
of her pretty lips relaxed. 

But those moments were not suspected by 
the other passengers on the Marina. They 
only came to the conclusion that the dancer 
was flirting disgracefully with the doctor — 
poor young man ! 

On the da)- when the Marina arrived at 
Naples Diamond Dawnish was in a state of 
tense excitement. 

" I'm always like this before dancing," 
she told Gillespie, in extenuation of her 
twitching hands and over-wrought irritability. 
" Artistic temperament, I suppose — or nerves, 
to put it vulgarly." 

" You oughtn't to dance at all, then ; it's 
bad for you," the doctor said, positively. 

" Oughtn't I, indeed, you solemn old saw- 
bones ! Why, I love it better than anything 
on earth." 

"I wonder if you'll always say that?" 
Gillespie spoke under his breath, as though 
almost involuntarily. 

" I wonder ! " The girl glanced at him half 
fearfully, then suddenly changed her tone. 
" But, after all, it isn't true now. I love my 
dear old dad better than dancing — better 
than anybody. I do, Dr. Gillespie." 

And Hugh Gillespie, being a patient man, 
acquiesced quietly. 

All day long Miss Dawnish remained in that 
state of nervous tension. She refused to go 
ashore : she ate practically nothing. Gillespie 




watched her quietly, and came to the con- 
clusion that her profession was unfit for a 
nervous woman. And Gillespie's opinions 
were not easily altered. 

But the girl's manner had changed when 
she encountered the young man on the stairs 
that night after dinner. She wore a long 
grey cloak, covering her from throat to feet, 
with a hood drawn up over her head. Be- 
neath its shadow her eyes gleamed vividly. 

" You look like a witch, Miss Dawnish," 
Gillespie said ; " or a maiden seeking a love- 
philtre of some magician." 

" You don't know how gorgeous I am 
underneath ! " the girl laughed. " Wait — 
you shall be specially privileged." 

She flung back the cloak, showed herself in 
clinging draperies of pale rose, bare of feet 
and arms and soft white shoulders. Glitter- 
ing chains hung in coils from her neck to her 
waist, whilst her bodice was all a-flutter 
with brilliant butterflies and love-knots of 
diamonds. A great barbaric, emerald-eyed 
serpent surrounded her slim waist, the 
diamond laurel-wreath was firmly fastened 
by means of wires concealed in her hair, her 
bare arms were almost hidden by bracelets 
and jewelled bangles. 

The women passengers of the Marina had 
outvied each other in showering jewellery 
upon the little dancer. There were orna- 
ments here of all grades of beauty and value, 
from Mrs. Wentworth's old-fashioned paste 
to Lady Bollingworth's really magnificent 
diamonds and sapphires. 
- The girl made a resplendent figure under 
the crude electric light, her cheeks ablaze 
with vivid colour, her eyes flashing and 
sparkling like the jewels themselves. 

" Aren't they lovely ! " she exclaimed. 

" You are lovely," Gillespie said, slowly. 
"The loveliest thing I have ever imagined." 

Again that almost fearful look showed in 
the girl's eyes. She turned away abruptly. 

" I — I wish you wouldn't talk like that," 
she said. " You don't mean it, and — and I 
don't want you to." 

" I do mean it " Gillespie began, but 

she interrupted him. 

" Then you mustn't — do you hear ? " she 
said, imperiously. " Now come and watch 
me dance." 

She pulled her shrouding cloak about her 
and passed swiftly on to the deck, followed 
more slowly by the young man. 

A curtained space to serve as stage had 
been arranged on deck ; Diamond declared 
that she could not dance in the saloon. 
Shaded lights hung at the sides, and, at a 

short distance, the passengers were seated. 
The pale dresses of the women and the men's 
white shirt-fronts showed luminous in the 
purple-grey gloom. 

Beyond the rail the sea was a deep, intense 
blue, pointed here and there with the lights 
of shipping. The brilliant specks seemed like 
stars, fallen from their places in the un- 
lighted sky above. The great sweep of the 
Bay of Naples was scarcely outlined against 
the darkly-clouded horizon, save where the 
crater of Vesuvius blazed into a sullen 
crimson glow. 

The concealed music began to play softly, 
and from between the parted curtains 
Diamond Dawnish slipped like a shadow, and 
stood, for a moment, motionless, wrapped in 
the long cloak. Then she began to dance, 
slowly and yet more slowly, her draperies 
making a faint whisper. She seemed a very 
spirit of dreams and dusk, the embodiment of 
the starless, moonless night itself. 

From the shadow of an alley-way Hugh 
Gillespie watched her, his heart beating far 
more rapidly than its wont, his cheeks hot 
with excitement. He knew now that he 
loved Diamond Dawnish — loved her with a 
force which he had never imagined in himself, 
at the very idea of which he would have 
laughed a few weeks before. And with all 
the strength of his nature he vowed that she 
should be his. 

Suddenly the music changed and quickened 
to a vivid, passionate cadence ; the little 
dancer flung aside her cloak, stood revealed in 
her glittering jewel dress, a figure of startling 
beauty. The glow of excitement burnt in 
her cheeks, her eyes were full of changeful 
brilliance, as her movements quickened in 
time to the music. 

The dance which followed was extra- 
ordinarily wild and dramatic. The shaded 
electric lights caught brilliant reflections 
from the clustered jewels, until the dancer 
seemed ringed in flickering, many-coloured 
flames. Gillespie watched, spellbound, like 
all the audience, by the brilliance of the 
performance, until the slowing cadences of 
the music warned him that it was drawing to 
an end. 

It was then that the young man came to 
a swift resolution. He was stirred to his 
very depths by the girl's beauty and the 
sudden realization of his love. He would 
speak to her again, now — this moment — 
whilst the eloquence lent by her radiance was 
his ; he would make her believe him, make 
her understand. 

Without an instant's hesitation, the young 







man strode down the alley behind him, and 
along the deserted deck towards the back of 
the extemporary stage. 

A perfect crash of applause broke out from 
the unseen audience, and Gillespie quickened 
his pace. He had determined to catch her 
before she went below ; some instinct seemed 
to tell him that this was the psychological 
moment for both of them. 

The stage draperies parted. Suddenly 
Diamond Dawnish appeared from between 
them, dragging the curtains together as she 
emerged through the heavy folds. 

The dancer stood there, silhouetted against 
the dark background, and leaning slightly 
forward, with her face in the full glare of the 
electric light. She was strangely pale, and 
her expression was one of strained attention ; 
she seemed to be listening — waiting. 

So tense was her attitude that Gillespie 
instinctively stood still, waiting and listening 
also, perhaps a dozen yards away. And 
suddenly it seemed to him that he caught the 
sound of a whistle, low and very faint, through 
the thunders of clamorous applause, which 
rose and fell and rose again. 

At the same moment a tremor ran through 
the figure of the dancer, and without an 
instant's hesitation she ran lightly across the 
deck and swung herself up on the rail, stand- 
ing poised, and staring down into the darkness 

For an instant she stood there, a radiant 
figure, outlined sharply against the dark- 
blue night. Then, whilst from the other 
side of the curtain came those reiterated cries 
of" Encore ! " and" Bravo ! " before Gillespie 
could so much as realize her intention, she 
was gone, without a cry, with only one dull 
splash to sound in the ears of the young man. 

At the top of his speed he ran along the 
deck ; his voice rang out clearly, cutting short 
the applause : — 

" Man overboard ! Man overboard ! " 

There were startled exclamations, the rush 
of feet along the deck, but Gillespie had already 
acted. He alone had seen where the girl fell ; 
without an instant's pause he, too, sprang 
upon the rail and dived down into the dark- 
ness of the lapping water overside. 

The young man rose to the surface and 
shook the drops from his eyes and ears. 
Then, treacling water, he peered about him 
in the darkness. As a swimmer, Gillespie 
was above the average in strength, and the 
night and the sea alike w r ere utterly still. 
And through that stillness he heard, very 
plainly, the sound of oars, coming apparently 
from shoreward, and quite close at hand. 

The thought of speedy rescue was cheering, 
and at the same instant he caught a glimpse 
of. Diamond's head, only a few yards away, a 
darker blot on the dark surface of the 

The girl seemed to be swimming with a 
steady stroke, but Gillespie set off unhesi- 
tatingly in pursuit. He had had no time to 
reason, no time to analyse her extraordinary 
action ; his one desire was to reach her, to 
save her. From behind, on the Marina, 
came the sound of voices and strenuous 
orders, followed by the creaking of fall ropes 
as a boat was lowered. And from in front 
sounded the thud-thud of oars, telling of 
rescue even nearer at hand. 

Suddenly the head of the dancer, with its 
following wake, was blurred by a dark 
presence looming behind it. Almost simul- 
taneously a cautious whisper crept clearly 
over the water. 

" Is that you, Fan ? " 

" Yes." It was Diamond's voice which 

" Got 'em ? " came the hoarse, eager 

" Yes. I'm wearing them all. Be quick, 
Joe ! The water's so c Ah ! " 

A muffled shriek broke from the girl's lips 
as she realized, for the first time, that Gillespie 
was close beside her. The young man acted 
on the immediate impulse of the moment. 
He caught at the dancer's arm, just as the 
man in the boat spoke again, low and fiercely. 

" What's the matter ? Where the devil 
are you, Fan ? What are you doing ? " 

" Leave go of me ! " Miss Dawnish gasped, 
under her breath. " Let me go — quick ! 
I'm all right. The other boat will pick you 
up. Quick ! " 

" I won't let go ! " Gillespie muttered, 
between his teeth. " I'll drown first." 

" You fool — you fool ! Can't you under- 
stand ? Won't you understand ? " 

" Be quick, Fan ! " hissed the insistent 
whisper from above them. " The other boat's 
coming. Good God ! what's this ? A 

Miss Dawnish flung up a white, gHttering 
arm and caught at the gunwale. 

"Help me, Joe!" she gasped. "He — 
he's — holding me ! " 

With a muffled curse a dark figure leant 
over the side of the boat, and there began a 
trial of strength. Gillespie set his teeth and 
retained a fierce grip upon the slim arm, aided 
by the dead weight of their clothes, dragged 
down with water. 

" Leave go, curse you ! " the man snarled. 







" If you don't, I swear I'll knock you on the 

" No, don't — you mustn't ! " Diamond's 
whisper was sharp and insistent. " Joe, I 
won't have it ! He meant to save my life." 

" Who cares about that ? Let go, will 
you ? There's that cursed boat coming. 
Confound you, let go, you fool ! " 

Gillespie held on grimly. Vaguely it 
seemed to him that he was fighting for 
something bigger than the girl's life — for 
her soul, perhaps. From very near at hand 
now came the sound of oars. He must 
not let go, whatever happened — he would 
not let go. 

The man in the boat gave a savage ejacula- 
tion. - 

" You will have it, then, you cursed fool ! 
Hold on to the gunwale tight, Fan." 

He moved back swiftly ; next instant 
Gillespie caught a glimpse of him, upright in 
the boat, with an oar upraised above his head. 
For an instant only — then he was dragged 
down — down. 

At first the young man really believed that 
the murderous blow had fallen, that he was 
sinking down to his death. Then he rose to 
the surface, with the cold night air upon his 
face, and realized that he still held the girl's 
arm in a fierce grip. And from some little 
distance away to landward came the thud- 
thud of oars, growing momentarily fainter. 

"Halloa! Are you there!" The hail 
sounded from close at hand. 

" Here ! " Gillespie cried, with a last de- 
spairing effort of strength, and felt the drops 
from upraised oars falling upon his face. 
Vaguely he saw the dark shape of the 
Marina's boat shoot alongside, felt strong 
arms raising them from the water, and heard 
the third officer's surprised ejaculation : — 

" Good Lord, Gillespie ! You here, too ! " 

Gillespie found himself most embarrassingly 
acclaimed as a hero when he appeared on deck 
next morning. Even the stately captain 
himself unbent. 

" You behaved splendidly, doctor ! All 
the ladies are full of gratitude, and no wonder 
— you saved their jewels." 

" Yes, sir," Gillespie acquiesced, rather 
ambiguously. " I saved their jewels." 

" As for Miss Dawnish — well, she's over 
there, alone. Hadn't you better go and be 
thanked at once — eh ? " 

" Yes, sir," the young man responded, 
soberly, and the captain's smile widened as 
he watched him depart along the deck in the 
direction of that small, solitary figure. 

" He's a pretty cool customer ! " he re- 

Diamond Dawnish half started up from her 
chair as Gillespie approached, and he saw 
that her soft prettiness was almost hidden 
beneath a cloud of despair and shame. She 
began to speak at once, quickly, feverishly, 
without waiting for greeting or question. 

'* I couldn't stay below — I had to know. 
You've told them, of course ! " There was 
deep misery beneath the bitterness in her 

" Not yet. I don't know enough myself," 
said the young man, deliberately. " Joe, 
for instance — who's he ? You may as well 
tell me, you know." 

" He's a sort of cousin of mine. He planned 
everything, and I wired to him from Gibraltar 
that it was fixed up. I was to have half the 
money for the jewels, and I wanted it — 
badly. Engagements are so hard to get, 
and — it would have just bought a little public- 
house down near Ashford for dad." 

" Oh— he's real ? " 

" Yes, Heaven help him ! " the girl said, 
bitterly. " Dad's real ; only a castle in 
Ireland sounded better than a pub in Kent, 
and Sir Daniel Dawnish is a finer name than 
Mr. Dubbs ; that's the only difference. But 
I'm none the less proud of him." 

" I see. I'm glad that your father is real-- 
and you, too. It makes it more satisfactory." 
Gillespie's slowness of speech was almost 
more pronounced than usual. " Because, you 
see, I'm not going to tell anybody anything." 

" Not— going— to tell ? " 

" No. Why should I ? There's no harm 
done. The jewels are safe — and so, I suppose, 
is my friend Joe. But there's just one other 
thing I want to know. Why did you save me 
and lose your own chance of escape ? " 

" I— I couldn't let Joe— kill you." 

" Oh, you could have. But you didn't ; 
that's the point. It would have made things 
easier for you, wouldn't it ? " 

" No." The word came softly, breath^ 

" Then — here are my last two questions : 
Do you love me ? Will you marry me ? 
Answer them both with one word — Diamond.' 1 

And Diamond answered. 

Vol. xlix.-32. 

by Google 

Original from 

The English Court 
and the English People. 

By H.R.H. 

Tke Infanta Eulalia of Spam. 

Illustrated ly A- Gilbert- 

the foreigner of Latin blood 
and temperament, the English 
character presents an almost 
insoluble enigma. Often just 
when we feel that we are really 
beginning to understand it, 
we are faced with some con- 
tradictory trait that completely baffles us. 
Certainly when we saw the country, appa- 
rently seething with internal dissensions, lay 
aside its family quarrels and present a united 
front to the enemy, we realized more than 
ever what a complex thing the English 
mentality is. 

I must confess that I thought it would 
be hard for England to rise to any great 
national emergency, not so much because 
things seemed to have reached the breaking- 
point in Ireland or because her colonies 
seemed bound to her more by self-interest 
than by real loyalty, but on account of the 
devastating habits of ease and luxury that 
had spread like a disease among her aris- 
tocracy. But now we know that these cor- 
rupting influences had not vitally affected 
the upper classes. Unlike the extrava- 
gances of ancient Rome, that had eaten to 
the heart of the nation's energies, England's 
hurt was only skin-deep. We can have no 
doubt of this when we see great ladies facing 
unfamiliar hardships and risks at the battle- 
front, others dismantling their huge country 
houses and transforming them into hospitals, 
and others freely giving their whole time and 
activities to the great relief organizations for 
the war's sufferers. The English aristocracy's 

Copyright in all countries 

ingrained sense of responsibility to the nation 
remains untouched by all its latterly-acquired 
taste for luxury and over-indulgence in sports. 

I say " latterly-acquired/' because it is 
undoubtedly true that this love of extrava- 
gance has grown enormously during the last 
decade or so. From the pomp and lavish- 
ness displayed nowadays in certain smart 
establishments, I should never realize that I 
was in the same circle whose courtesy and 
simplicity used to delight me so in the 
England I learned to love years ago. 

It was as a young married woman that I 
had my first experience of English life. The 
Count and Countess of Paris, my husband's 
relatives, had been exiled from France, and 
had been living for some time in Tunbridge 
Wells. I spent many months with them 
there, and, through their large circle of friends, 
I became acquainted with all kinds and 
conditions of people, and soon found myself 
accepting the hospitality of these newly- 
made friends. When I made it clear to my 
host and hostess that I desired them to forget 
that I was an Infanta and to be treated as an 
ordinary individual, etiquette was banished 
and I was able to do as I liked. 

Life in the country houses always pleased 
me best. In those days it was the custom 
for the family and guests to breakfast together, 
and I loved the informality of it all undis- 
turbed by the ministrations of liveried lackeys. 
Often, when there were children in the house, 
they were allowed to come to the table too, 
and we a\\ had a very jolly time over the 


under the Berne Convention. 



We often went bicycling for the whole day, 
carrying our lunches with us and eating them 
in some pleasant grove by the wayside. 
Sometimes we went on coaching expeditions, 
and lunched in some old thatch-covered inn. 
When my children were little I seldom missed 
passing some time in England each summer, 
so that they, too, could enjoy the freedom of 
the open-air life. 

It did not take me long to appreciate the 
charm of the English home and country, 
which are vastly different from anything 
abroad. In Spain people never live all the 
year round in the country if they can possibly 
avoid it, and they seldom visit their estates 
unless they wish to practically retire from the 
world. On the rare occasions* when they do 
snatch themselves from the conventional: 
round of gaieties in the cities or the big 
watering-places, they shut themselves up in 
their big, bare castles, receiving no one, and 
seldom venturing outside their own pro- 
perties. It is almost a time of penance. 

They are simply incapable of understanding 
the English love of life in the open air, with 
its many exhilarating and ingenious pastimes 
which appeal so strongly to me. More than 
that, they are inclined to look upon such 
taste as rather ill-bred. For instance, only 
the humblest Spaniard would dream of eating 
his cold lunch by the roadside, and I am sure 
that the true aristocrat would never appre- 
ciate the charm of seeking out some pictur- 
esque spot and having tea from a tea-basket. 
No Spanish lady of quality would even allow 
herself to walk hatless in her own garden, 
and reclining in a hammock or on the grass 
would be ruthlessly banned by her traditions 
and upbringing. 

One summer day Queen Christina came to 
me with a look of sheer consternation on her 

" Eulalia," she said, " I have just seen an 
appalling sight : an Englishwoman lying on 
the grass in the park." 

The culprit was a lady-in-waiting who had 
been brought to Spain by an English Princess 
visiting the Court. I had some difficulty in 
convincing the Queen that such an action 
would not be considered such a shocking 
breach of etiquette in England as she 

In France, country life in the Smart Set is 
more animated than in Spain, but it still lacks 
the spontaneity and freedom of the English 
out-of-doors. The chateaux are occasionally 
thrown open to visitors, but the guests are 
content to undergo the same routine as in 
Paris — the only difference being that it is 

adapted to another setting. Of course, there 
are hunting meets, and, of late years, garden- 
parties, but much of the entertaining takes 
place indoors — dinner-parties, theatrical per- 
formances, afternoon receptions, and the 
like. The French have not yet learned how 
really to live in the country, to relax, and to 
change their entire mode of thought and 

There is hardly a province in England that 
I am not familiar with. I have spent many 
weeks in Cornwall, Devon, and Yorkshire, 
and have returned again and again to 
Brighton, Tunbridge Wells, and Richmond. 
Curiously enough, during one visit to Rich- 
mond I received a message from the Duchess 
of Teck that her daughter, then Princess of 
Wales, had just given birth to her first boy. 
I went at once to White Lodge to offer my 
congratulations, and I fancy that I was the 
first, outside the immediate family, to hold 
the future Prince of Wales in my arms. 

What to ir.e is convincing proof of the 
change in latter years from simplicity to lavish 
display is the difference in the way of living 
I have remarked amongst many of my friends. 
Each time I have visited England recently I 
have been struck with this. 

One thing that used to delight me so was 
the informality of the English tea. It was 
invariably served sans ctrtmonie in the draw- 
ing-room. After the servants had brought 
it in they retired and left us to our own 
devices. Neighbours frequently dropped in 
without warning, and often, as we gathered 
round a big blazing fire and ate those wonder- 
ful home-made delicacies unknown to Conti- 
nentals, there was a charming feeling of 
expansiveness and intimacy that we never 
had at other times of the day. Of late years 
I have noticed thatfthe custom has changed. 
When you are invited to tea, you find your 
place set at a table loaded with expensive 
flowers and accessories from the chic caterer. 
Footmen are in constant attendance, and the 
charm of informality has entirely gone. 

Friends of mine who used to be content to 
dine in some simple tea-gown now wear the 
latest Paris creations and their jewels — and 
this every evening. Although the French 
women may still think that the English- 
woman's taste in dress is far beneath her own 
standard, she would have to admit, if she 
were invited to some fashionable house-party, 
that the Englishwoman of means has far 
eclipsed her in the matter of frequent change. 
She would see the hostess and guests appear in 
tweed suits and stout boots for their morning 
constitutional and breakfast, then reappear 





Or igin a l fr om 




in white flannels for their afternoon game of 
tennis or boating. She would wonder how, 
in the thick of sports and entertaining, 
these energetic women found time to put on 
some clinging creation for tea, which would 
later be laid aside for the dicolleti dinner- 

Of course, these departures from the simple 
tastes of twenty years ago seem harmless 
enough in themselves, but they are surely 
indications of a constantly growing love of 
lavishness in the whole social routine, I am 
sorry to say that the fine old-time courtesies 
of the English gentry seem to have suffered 
by these more luxurious habits of living. In 
many smart circles polished manners seem 
to have become as superannuated as crino- 
lines and stage-coaches. 

Whatever may be the faults of the English 
landlord system — faults inherited from the 
centuries — the system used to work excel- 
lently whenever the lord of the castle or 
manor-house lived up to his responsibilities. 
In spite of its touch of paternalism, there was 
something impressive about the white-haired 
earl inspecting his broad acres, bowing 
tenants standing aside to let his carriage pass, 
and something altogether touching about his 
lady visiting the cottagers, her footman — far 
haughtier in mien than she — bearing gifts of 
food and warm clothing. As long as the 
villagers were well cared for, I suppose they 
never questioned whether it was right for 
their master to have a mansion while they 
had to toil so hard to keep their humble 
thatched roof over their heads. But when 
the young lord took to dissipating the family 
fortunes on the Turf, when he married some 
footlight favourite — in other words, when he 
began to neglect the responsibilities of his 
race — that, probably, was the beginning of 
their doubt in the justice of the English 
social order. Then they forgot to curtsy 
whenever the young lord and his bride 
motored through the village, and they began 
to listen to the itinerant Labour agitator at 
the tavern. 

Of course, the democratic spirit that is 
spreading all over the world has been at work 
in England for years, undermining rigid caste 
distinctions and differences, but I feel that 
it could not have grown so quickly nor ex- 
pressed itself in just such forms as it has if 
the extravagance and irresponsibility of many 
of the rich and powerful had not paved the 
way for it. Destroy respect and you destroy 
docility. There is no doubt that the English 
lower classes, in their first efforts towards 
democracy and equality, have made some 

Digitized by tiOOgJC 

pretty ludicrous mistakes. Instead of copy- 
ing the fine qualities of the aristocracy, they 
have, more frequently than not, managed to 
imitate their shortcomings and limitations. 
I remember hearing that the valet of some 
Prince insisted on having a valet for himself ! 
I know that French maids whom I have taken 
to England have had their heads turned by 
the amazing etiquette of the servants' hall — 
all unquestionably due to the servants' desire 
to copy their masters. 

The maid of the Infanta is a great person, 
and she soon found that she could take prece- 
dence over all the others. 

She had to be elegantly dressed. Indeed, 
whenever I go to England I always remark 
that my maid has double the luggage she 
requires when I take her to other countries. 
Once I discovered that the English servants' 
attitude towards their work had so affected 
one maid that she was almost completely 
spoilt. For instance, after a visit to England 
on which she had accompanied me, this maid 
broke down and sobbed when I told her to 
light a fire. 

" I can't, I can't ! " she said, piteously, 
with tears streaming down her face. 

" But for years you have been accustomed 
to light fires for me," I said. " What has 
happened to make it such a terrible thing to 
light one now ? " 

She explained that she had learnt in Eng- 
land that it was beneath the dignity of a lady's 
maid to do menial work. 

However, it is riot unreasonable to hope 
that the war, which has already done so much 
towards rousing the rich from their lethargy 
of extravagance and neglect of responsi- 
bilities to the most praiseworthy usefulness, 
will help to correct the lower-class conception 
of equality. As I have already said, no 
character is so full of surprises as the 
English — so capable of appearing to be one 
thing while underneath it is the exact 
opposite. Can this be what people of other 
nationalities mean when they speak of English 
hypocrisy ? 

It is rather an innate reserve which the 
foreigner finds great difficulty in penetrating. 
It comes, no doubt, from the Englishman's 
veneration for tradition, and for centuries he 
has been schooled to show no emption. That 
is often why he is supposed to be either 
stupid or inattentive. As a matter of fact, 
this very exterior gives him the great ad- 
vantage of being able to size up a situation 
without betraying either the process or his 

The proof of what X say is the Englishman's 




unquestionable superiority in diplomacy. 
People who have no experience of cosmo- 
politan society seem to think that the suc- 
cessful diplomat must be a detective of the 
popular novel type ; an astute if somewhat 
unscrupulous politician and a polished ladies' 
man rolled into one. To be sure, the repre- 
sentatives of certain countries often do their 
best to realize just such an ideal, but, although 
this type may succeed in carrying some of 
their machinations to a conclusion satis- 
factory to themselves, they scarcely ever 
accomplish anything really worth while for 
their Governments. Most of the English 
diplomats I have known on the Continent 
give the impression of being serenely in- 
different to any intrigues that may be going 
on around them. It has often amused me to 
watch them at dinner-parties. Unlike certain 
representatives of other Powers, they never 
go out of their way to make themselves agree- 
able to ladies. I have never seen them pay 
especial attention to the wives of powerful 
statesmen for the purposes of their profession 
— indeed, they seem to scorn these back-door 
methods. Perhaps it is because they know 
very well that real diplomacy is built on more 
solid foundations than on the gleanings of 
drawing-room conversations or the chance 
confidences of indiscreet women. 

And they are right in this, for the whole 
tradition of diplomacy in England is different 
from that of any Great Power. She has not 
changed her tactics for centuries. 

Instead of conducting her negotiations 
with other countries through her Ambassadors 
in those countries, England has established 
such a prestige among nations that she is 
able to transact her international affairs in 
London, and so, instead of relying on the 
cleverness of one man for a successful issue, 
she has at her disposal the brains of her best 
statesmen. King Edward, in bringing about 
the Entente Cordiale, undoubtedly initiated 
the French Government into this way of 
conducting its international affairs, for of 
late years French diplomacy has steadily 

King Edward himself possessed in a high 
degree those national qualities that make the 
English such good diplomats. Not only in 
the conduct of nations, but in society, his self- 
possession and tact were unfailing. They 
certainly did not fail him on one occasion 
when I saw him placed in a very comical and 
embarrassing situation. We were both at a 
dinner-party in a great London house, and 
among the guests was a lady who bore an 
historic Italian title. She was English by 

birth, and before her marriage had been 
famous in London society for her great beauty 
and her charm of manner. A wealthy Jew, 
who shall be disguised under the name of 
Abraham, was madly in love with her, and 
her friends, including King Edward, saw his 
growing infatuation with concern. 

" Don't you marry that man/' was the 
advice given her, peremptorily, but good- 
naturedly, by King Edward. 

But marry him she did ; not, however, 
before he had been to Italy and bought the 
palace and the pompous title of an impover- 
ished Florentine noble. Of this fact the King 
was unaware, and when the lady was presented 
to him at the dinner-table as the Marchesa 
di X., he smiled and said : "lam delighted 
to meet you again as the Marchesa di X., and 
so thankful you didn't marry that awful 

A few moments later the King observed 
that the awful Abraham was standing close 
by and had heard the unfortunate remark. 
Without turning a hair, he smiled at him 
and congratulated him heartily upon his 

King Edward was the first member of the 
English Royal Family that I met. My 
acquaintance with him started in Madrid, 
when, as Prince of Wales, he came with his 
brother, the Duke of Connaught, one of the 
most charming Princes in Europe, to be present 
at the festivities given in honour of the 
marriage of my brother. 

Later I stayed with him and Queen Alex- 
andra at Sandringham. One of the first 
things to impress me there was the King's 
extreme punctuality. Somebody used always 
to come and warn me ten minutes before 
meal-times that I must not keep him waiting. 
For some unknown reason, he had all the 
clocks in the house set half an hour in advance 
of the right time, and one of the first things 
that guests at Sandringham learnt was the 
existence of this curious practice. The King 
liked to be amused, and, as he had a taste for 
the Gallic turn of wit that makes Latin races 
such good raconteurs, there were always one or 
two foreigners about who, although they did 
not wear the cap and bells which would have 
defined their functions in an earlier age, 
played the part of Court Jester admirably, 
and enlivened conversation at the dinner- 
table with praiseworthy persistence. 

The Princess Louise, now Duchess of Argyll, 
possesses a share of the talent which dis- 
tinguished her brother and their sister, the 
Empress Frederick , I spent a very agreeable 
time with her in the Isle of Wight when I went 








to England for the first time. We had many 
cosy times together, leaving our husbands to 
amuse each other, and our mutual interest 
in art and literature naturally drew us 

Undoubtedly one of the cleverest and most 
charming figures in the Royal circle is the 
Duchess of Connaught, Her husband would, 
I am certain ? be the first to admit that his 
success in creating for himself the special 
place he holds in English life and in the life of 
the British Empire is largely due to the 
Duchess's loyal help and wise advice. In 
spite of her German upbringing, she has given 
her sell whole-heartedly to the country of her 
adoption, and her daughters, the Crown 
Princess of Sweden and Princess Patricia, 
are delightful and typically English girls. 

The Russian Princess, known best in Eng- 
land as Duchess of Edinburgh, and now 
Duchess of Coburg, was unable to adapt 
herself to life in a strange country. It is a 
canon of Court etiquette that Imperial per- 
sonages take precedence of Royal personages, 
and consequently it was held in Russia that 
the Duchess of Edinburgh, being the daughter 
of the Emperor of Russia, should take prece- 
dence of the Princess of Wales, who was 
merely the daughter of a King* Queen 
Ale: indra is so amiable that I 'believe 
she would have contentedly allowed the 
Duchess, and anybody else who wanted to 
do so, to pass before her ; but obviously the 
wife of the heir to the throne could not he 
permitted to take any place but the first after 
the Sovereign. What was to be done? 
Queen Victoria solved the difficulty very 
cleverly, She caused herself to be proclaimed 
Empress of India, and the claim put forward 
by the Duchess immediately fell to the 
ground. The assumption of Imperial rank 
by the Queen was undoubtedly dictated by 

political considerations j but the solution of 
the J ificulty created by the conservatism of 
O- ,^ etiquette was an argument which 
we .:^d with her when she took the decisive 

In no country is the veneration of Royalty 
carried to greater lengths than in England. 
That is doubtless why King Edward's many 
American and Jewish friends were so readily 
received by the Smart Set, although these 
new-comers brought with them a love of 
lavisL.iess and display that went counter to 
the taste and traditions of the English 
noblesse , When society opened its doors to 
these people of vast wealth and luxurious 
habits, and accepted their prodigal entertain- 
ments, it is hardly surprising that their 
example became infectious. Let us hope that 
England's ingTained respect for Royalty will 
induce the aristocracy to copy the simplicity 
and dignity of King George and Queen Mary's 
life, and that this influence will aid in com- 
pletely reviving the old-time ideals of courtesy 
and good breeding. 

As 1 have said, this revival has already 
begun. The war, which has had the effect 
of rousing the rich from their over-indulgence 
in luxury and sports, will no doubt do much 
towards leavening the attitude of the classes 
towards each other. Surely, since they have 
been drawn together in a spontaneous 
movement of patriotism in the face of the 
enemy , they will lose much of their common 
mistrust and misunderstanding, and the 
real democracy of the spirit — not the sham 
equality of externals — will have freer leeway. 
More than that, I dare hope that the war, 
which has not only forced different classes, 
but different nations, to stand side by side, 
will break down that insular habit of 
thought which sees no good in foreign life 
and customs. 


by Google 

Original from 

y I 


Valley °/ Fear 







llkistr&ted byF&ANK WlLES 




N the day following the even- 
ing which had contained 
so many exciting events 
McMurdo moved his lodgings 
from old Jacob Shatter's and 
took up his quarters at the 
Widow MacNamara's, on the 
extreme outskirts of the town. Scanlan, his 
original acquaintance aboard the train, had 
occasion shortly afterwards to move into 
Vermissa, and the two lodged together. 
There was no other boarder, and the hostess 
was an easy-going old Irishwoman who left 
them to themselves, so that they had a free- 
dom for speech and action welcome to men 
who had secrets in common. Shatter had 
relented to the extent of letting McMurdo 
come to his meals there when he liked, so that 
his intercourse with Ettie was by no means 
broken. On the contrary, it drew closer and 

Vol xlix.— 39, Copyright, 19x5 

more intimate as the weeks went by. In his 
bedroom at his new abode McMurdo felt it to 
be safe to take out the coining moulds, and 
under many a pledge of secrecy a number of 
the brothers from the Lodge were allowed to 
come in and see them, each of them carrying 
away in his pocket some examples of the false 
money, so cunningly struck that there was 
never the slightest difficulty or danger in 
passing it. Why, with such a wonderful art 
at his command, McMurdo should condescend 
to work at all was a perpetual mystery to his 
companions, though he made it clear to any- 
one who asked him that if he lived without 
any visible means it would very quickly bring 
the police upon his track. 

One policeman was, indeed, after him 
already, but the incident, as luck would have 
it, did the adventurer a great deal more good 
than harm. After the first introduction there 
were few evenings when he did not find his 
way to McGinty's saloon,, the re to make closer 

by A. Conmp Doyle* 



acquaintance with " the boys/' which was 
the jovial title by which the dangerous gang 
who infested the place were known to each 
other. His dashing manner and fearlessness 
of speech made him a favourite with them all, 
while the rapid and scientific way in which he 
polished off his antagonist in an " all in " bar- 
room scrap earned the respect of that rough 
community. Another incident, however, raised 
him even higher in their estimation. 

Just at the crowded hour one night the 
door opened and a man entered with the quiet 
blue uniform and peaked cap of the Coal and 
Iron Police. This was a special body raised 
by the railways and colliery owners to supple- 
ment the efforts of the ordinary civil police, 
who were perfectly helpless in the face of 
the organized ruffianism which terrorized the 
district. There was a "hush as he entered, 
and many a curious glance was cast at him, 
but the relations between policemen and 
criminals are peculiar in the States, and 
McGinty himself, standing behind his counter, 
showed no surprise when the inspector en- 
rolled himself among his customers. 

" A straight whisky, for the night is bitter," 
said the police-officer. " I don't think we 
have met before, Councillor ? " 

" You'll be the new captain ? " said 

" That's so. We're looking to you, Coun- 
cillor, and to the other leading citizens, to 
help us in upholding law and order in this 
township. Captain Marvin is my name — of 
the Coal and Iron." 

" We'd do better without you, Captain 
Marvin," said McGinty, coldly. " For we 
have our own police of the township, and no 
need for any imported goods. What are you 
but the paid tool of the men of capital, hired 
by them to club or to shoot your poorer fellow- 
citizens ? " 

" Well, well, we won't argue about that," 
said the police-officer, good-humouredly. " I 
expect we all do our duty same as we see it, 
but we can't all see it the same." He had 
drunk off his glass and had turned to go, when 
his eyes fell upon the face of Jack McMurdo, 
who was scowling at his elbow. " Halloa ! 
halloa ! " he cried, looking him up and down. 
" Here's an old acquaintance." 

McMurdo shrank away from him. 

" I was never a friend to you nor any other 
cursed copper in my life," said he. 

" An acquaintance isn't always a friend," 
said the police captain, grinning. " You're 
Jack McMurdo of Chicago, right enough, and 
don't you deny it." 

McMurdo shrugged his shoulders. 

" I'm not denying it," said he. " D'ye 
think I'm ashamed of my own name ? " 

" You've got good cause to be, anyhow." 

" What the devil d'you mean by that ? " 
he roared, with his fists clenched. 

" No, no, Jack ; bluster won't do with me. 
I was an officer in Chicago before ever I came 
to this darned coal-bunker, and I know a 
Chicago crook when I see one." 

McMurdo's face fell. 

" Don't tell me that you're Marvin of the 
Chicago Central ! " he cried. 

" Just that same old Teddy Marvin, at 
your service. We haven't forgotten the 
shooting of Jonas Pinto up there." 

" I never shot him." 

" Did you not ? That's good impartial 
evidence, ain't it ? Well, his death came in 
uncommon handy for you, or they would have 
had you for shoving the queer. Well, we can 
let that be bygones, for, between you and me 
— and perhaps I'm going farther than my 
duty in saying it — they could get no clear 
case against you, and Chicago's open to you 

" I'm very well where I am." 

" Well, I've given you the office, and you're 
a sulky dog not to thank me for it." 

" Well, I suppose you mean well, and I 
do thank you," said McMurdo, in no very 
gracious manner. 

" It's mum with me so long as I see you 
living on the straight," said the captain. 
" But, by gum, if you get off on the cross 
after this it's another story ! So good night 
to you — and good night, Councillor. " 

He left the bar-room, but not before he 
had created a local hero. McMurdo's deeds in 
far Chicago had been whispered before. He 
had put off all questions with a smile as one 
who did not wish to have greatness thrust 
upon him. But now the thing was officially 
confirmed. The bar-loafers crowded round 
him and shook him heartily by the hand. 
He was free of the community from that time 
on. He could drink hard and show little 
trace of it, but that evening, had his mate 
Scanlan not been at hand to lead him home, 
the feted hero would surely have spent his 
night under the bar. 

On a Saturday night McMurdo was intro- 
duced to the Lodge. He had thought to 
pass in without ceremony as being an initiate 
of Chicago ; but there were particular rites 
in Vermissa of which they were proud, and 
these had to be undergone by every postulant. 
The assembly met in a large room reserved 
for such purposes at the Union House. Some 
sixty members asserr[b]ed at Vermissa ; but 



I was an officer 







that by no means represented the full strength 
of the organization, for there were several 
other lodges in the valley, and others across 
the mountains on either side, who exchanged 
members when any serious business was 
afoot, so that a crime might be done by men 
who were strangers to the locality. Altogether, 
there were not fewer than five hundred 
scattered over the coal district. 

In the bare assembly room the men were 
gathered round a long table. - At the side was 
a second one laden with bottles and glasses, 
on which some members of the company 
were already turning their eyes. McGinty sat 
at the head with a flat black velvet cap upon 
his shock of tangled black hair and a coloured 
purple stole round his neck, so that he 
seemed to be a priest presiding over some 
diabolical ritual. To right and left of him 
were the higher Lodge officials, the cruel, hand- 
some face of Ted Baldwin among them. Each 
of these wore some scarf or medallion as 
emblem of his office. They were, for the most 
part, men of mature age, but the rest of the 
company consisted of young fellows from 
eighteen to twenty-five, the ready and capable 
agents who carried out the commands of their 
seniors. Among the older men were many 
whose features showed the tigerish, lawless 
souls within, but looking at the rank and file 
it was difficult to believe that these eager 
and open-faced young fellows were in very 
truth a dangerous gang of murderers, whose 
minds had suffered such complete moral per- 
version that they took a horrible pride in their 
proficiency at the business, and looked with 
the deepest respect at the man who had the 
reputation for making what they called a 
" clean job." To their contorted natures it 
had become a spirited and chivalrous thing 
to volunteer for service against some man 
who had never injured them, and whom, in 
many cases, they had never seen in their lives. 
The crime committed, they quarrelled as to 
who had actually struck the fatal blow, and 
amused each other and the company by de- 
scribing the cries and contortions of the 
murdered man. At first they had shown some 
secrecy in their arrangements, but at the time 
which this narrative describes their proceed- 
ings were extraordinarily open, for the re- 
peated failures of the law had proved to them 
that, on the one hand, no one would dare to 
witness against them, and, on the other, they 
had an unlimited number of staunch witnesses 
upon whom they could call, and a well-filled 
treasure chest from which they could draw 
the funds to engage the best legal talent in 
the State. In ten long years of outrage there 

had been no single conviction, and the only 
danger that ever threatened the Scowrers lay 
in the victim himself, who, however out- 
numbered and taken by surprise, might, and 
occasionally did, leave his mark upon his 

McMurdo had been warned that some ordeal 
lay before him, but no one would tell him in 
what it consisted. He was led now into an outer 
room by two solemn brothers. Through the 
plank partition he could hear the murmur of 
many voices from the assembly within. 
Once or twice he caught the sound of his own 
name, and he knew that they were discussing 
his candidature. Then there entered an inner 
guard, with a green and gold sash across his 

" The body master orders that he shall be 
trussed, blinded, and entered," said he. The 
three of them then removed his coat, turned 
up the sleeve of his right arm, and finally 
passed a rope round above the elbows and 
made it fast. They next placed a thick black 
cap right over his head and the upper part of 
his face, so that he could see nothing. He 
was then led into the assembly hall. 

It was pitch-dark and very oppressive 
under his hood. He heard the rustle and 
murmur of the people round him, and then 
the voice of McGinty sounded, dull and 
distant, through the covering of his ears. 

" John McMurdo," said the voice, " are 
you already a member of the Ancient Order 
of Freemen ? " 

He bowed in assent. 

" Is your lodge No. 29, Chicago ? " 

He bowed again. 

" Dark nights are unpleasant/' said the 

" Yes, for strangers to travel," he answered. 

" The clouds are heavy." 

" Yes ; a storm is approaching." 

" Are the brethren satisfied ? " asked the 

There was a general murmur of assent. 

" We know, brother, by your sign and by 
your countersign, that you are indeed one of 
us," said McGinty. " We would have you 
know, however, that in this county and in 
other counties of these parts we have certain 
rites, and also certain duties of our own, 
which call for good men. Are you ready to 
be tested?" 

" I am." 

" Are you of stout heart ? " 

" I am." 

" Take a stride forward to prove it." 

As the words wrre said he felt two hard 

p oi ^i?Mv%ra^r in ? u P on tfem 



so that it appeared as if he could not move 
•forward without a danger of losing them. 
None the less, he nerved himself to step reso- 
lutely out, and as he did so the pressure melted 
away. There was a low murmur of applause. 

" He is of stout heart/' said the voice. 
" Can you bear pain ? " 

" As well as another/' he answered. 

" Test him ! " 

It was all he could do to keep himself from 
screaming out, for an agonizing pain shot 
through his forearm. He nearly fainted at 
the sudden shock of it, but he bit his lip and 
clenched his hands to hide his agony. 

" I can take more than that," said he. 

This time there was loud applause. A 
finer first appearance had never been made 
in the Lodge. Hands clapped him on the back, 
and the hood was plucked from his head. He 
stood blinking and smiling amid the congratu- 
lations of the brothers. 

" One last word, Brother McMurdo," said 
McGinty. " You have already sworn the 
oath of secrecy and fidelity, and you are 
aware that the punishment for any breach of 
it is instant and inevitable death ? " 

" I am/' said McMurdo. 

" And you accept the rule of the body- 
master for the time being under all circum- 
stances ? " 

"I do." 

" Then, in the name of Lodge 341 , Vermissa, 
I welcome you to its privileges and debates. 
You will put the liquor on the table, Brother 
Scanlan, and we will drink to our worthy 

McMurdo's coat had been brought to him, 
but before putting it on he examined his 
right arm, which still smarted heavily. There, 
on the flesh of the forearm, was a clear-cut 
circle with a triangle within it, deep and red, 
as the branding-iron had left it. One or two 
of his neighbours pulled up their sleeves and 
showed their own Lodge marks. 

" We've all had it," said one, " but not all 
as brave as you over it." 

" Tut ! It was nothing/' said he ; but it 
burned and ached all the same. 

When the drinks which followed the cere- 
mony of initiation had all been disposed of, the 
business of the Lodge proceeded. McMurdo, 
accustomed only to the prosaic performances 
of Chicago, listened with open ears, and more 
surprise than he ventured to show, to what 

" The first business on the agenda paper/' 
said McGinty, " is to read the following letter 
fron* Division Master Windle, of Merton 
County, Lodge 249. He says : — 

Dear Sir, — There is a job to be done on Andrew 
Rae, of Rae and Sturmash, coal-owners near this place. 
You will remember that ypur Lodge owes us a return^ 
having had the services of two brethren in the matter 
of the patrolman last fall. If you will send two good 
men they wiU be taken charge of by Treasurer Higgins 
of this Lodge, whose address you know. He will show 
them when to act and where. — Yours in freedom, 

J. W. Windle, D.M.A.O.F. 

Windle has never refused us when we have 
had occasion to ask for the loan of a man or 
two, and it is not for us to refuse him." 
McGinty paused and looked round the room 
with his dull, malevolent eyes. u Who wiH 
volunteer for the job ? " 

Several young fellows held up their hands. 
The bodymaster looked at them with an 
approving smile. 

" You'll do, Tiger Cormac. If you handle 
it as well as you did the last you won't be 
amiss. And you, Wilson." 

" I've no pistol," said the volunteer, a 
mere boy in his teens. 

" It's your first, is it not ? Well, you have 
to be blooded some time. It will be a great 
start for you. As to the pistol, you'll find it 
waiting for you, or I'm mistaken. If you 
report yourselves on Monday it will be time 
enough. You'll get a -great welcome when 
you return." 

" Any reward this time ? " asked Cormac, 
a thick-set, dark-faced, brutal-looking young 
man, whose ferocity h&d earned him the nick- 
name of " Tiger." 

" Never mind the reward. You just do it 
for the honour of the thing. Maybe when it 
is done there will be a few odd dollars at the 
bottom of the box." 

" What has the man done ? " asked young 

" Sure, it's not for the likes of you to ask 
what the man has done. He has been judged 
over there. That's no business of ours. All 
we have to do is to carry it out for them, same 
as they would for us. Speaking of that, two 
brothers from the Merton Lodge are coming 
over to us next week to do some business in 
this quarter." 

" Who are they ? " asked someone. 

" Faith, it is wiser not to ask. If you know 
nothing you can testify nothing, and no 
trouble can come of it,. But they are men 
who will make a clean job when they are about 

" And time, too ! " cried Ted Baldwin. 
" Folk are getting out of hand in these parts. 
It was only last week that three of our men 
were turned off by Foreman Blaker. It's 
been owing him 8, bung time, and he'll get it 

full and ftfflfERSfTY OF -MICHIGAN 








CLENCHED HIS HANDS TO HIDE HIS AGONY. *I CAN TAKE ^flB/pp^l|ryi?J,p , ^J 1 |$S|I|p-Wfl>" 



" Get what ? " McMurdo whispered to his 

" The business end of a buck-shot cart- 
ridge," cried the man, with a loud laugh. 
" What think you of our ways, brother ? " 

McMurdo' s criminal soul seemed to have 
already absorbed the spirit of the vile associa- 
tion of which he was now a member. 

" I like it well," said he. " Tis a proper 
place for a lad of mettle." 

Several of those who sat around heard his 
words and applauded them. 

" What's that ? " cried the black-maned 
bodymaster, from the end of the table. 

" 'Tis our new brother, sir, who finds our 
ways to his taste." 

McMurdo rose to his feet for an instant. 

" I would say, Worshipful Master, that if a 
man should be wanted I should take it as an 
honour to be chosen to help the Lodge." 

There was great applause at this. It was 
felt that a new sun was pushing its rim above 
the horizon. To some of the elders it seemed 
that the progress was a little too rapid. 

" I would move," said the secretary, 
Harraway, a vulture-faced old greybeard who 
sat near the chairman, " that * Brother 
McMurdo should wait until it is the good 
pleasure of the Lodge to employ him." 

" Sure, that was what I meant. I'm in 
your hands," said McMurdo. 

" Your time will come, brother," said the 
chairman. " We have marked you down as 
a willing man, and we believe that you will 
do good work in these parts. There is a 
small matter to-night in which you may take 
a hand, if it so please youJ' 

" I will wait for something that is worth 

" You can come to-night, anyhow, and it 
will help you to know what we stand for in 
this community. I will make the announce- 
ment later. Meanwhile " — he glanced at his 
agenda paper — "I have one or two more 
points to bring before the meeting. First of 
all, I will ask the treasurer as to our bank 
balance. There is the pension to Jim 
Carnaway's widow. He was struck down 
doing the work of the Lodge, and it is for us to 
see that she is not the loser." 

" Jim was shot last month when they tried 
to kill Chester Wilcox, of Marley Creek," 
McMurdo's neighbour informed him. 

" The funds are good at the moment," said 
the treasurer, with the bank-book in front of 
him. " The firms have been generous of late. 
Max Linder and Co. paid five hundred to be 
left alone. Walker Brothers sent in a hundred, 
fc>ut I took it on myself to return it and ask for 

five. If I do not hear by Wednesday their 
winding gear may get out of order. We had 
to burn their breaker last year before they 
became reasonable. Then the West Section 
Coaling Company has paid its annual con- 
tribution. We have enough in hand to meet 
any obligations." 

" What about Archie Swindon ? " asked a 

" He has sold out and left the district. 
The old devil left a note for us to say that he 
had rather be a free crossing-sweeper in New 
York than a large mine-owner under the power 
of a ring of blackmailers. By gosh, it was 
as well that he made a break for it before the 
note reached us ! I guess he dare not show 
his face in this valley agaiii" 

An elderly, clean-shaven man, with a kindly 
face and a good brow, rose from the end of 
the table which faced the chairman. 

" Mr. Treasurer," he asked, " may I ask 
who has bought the property of this man that 
we have driven out of the district ? " 

" Yes, Brother Morris. It has been bought 
by the State and Merton County Railroad 

" And who bought the mines of Todman 
and of Lee that came into the market in the 
same way last year ? " 

" The same company, Brother Morris." 

" And who bought the ironworks of Manson 
and of Shuman and of Van Deher and of 
At wood, which have all been given up of late ? " 

"They were all bought by the West 
Gilmerton General Mining Company." 

" I don't see, Brother Morris," said the 
chairman, " that it matters a nickel to us who 
buys them, since they can't carry them out 
of the district." 

" With all respect to you, Worshipful 
Master, I think that it may matter very 
much to us. This process has been going on 
now for ten long years. We are gradually 
driving all the small men out of trade. What 
is the result ? We find in their places great 
companies lik r , the Railroad or the General 
Iron, who have their directors in New York 
or Philadelphia, and care nothing for our 
threats. We can take it out of their local 
bosses, but it only means that others will be 
sent in their stead. And we are making it 
dangerous for ourselves. The small men 
could not harm us. They had not the money 
nor the power. So long as we did not squeeze 
them too dry, they would stay on under our 
power. But if these big companies find that 
we stand between them and their profits, they 
will spare no pains and no expense to hunt u$ 
dowffi and bring 



There was a hush at these ominous words, 
and every face darkened as gloomy looks were 
exchanged. So omnipotent and unchallenged 
had they been that the very thought that 
there was possible retribution in the back- 
ground had been banished from their minds. 
And yet the idea struck a chill to the most 
reckless of them. 

" It is my advice/' the speaker continued, 
" that we bear less heavily upon the small 
men. On the day that they have all been 
driven out the power of this society will have 
been broken/ ' 

Unwelcome truths are not popular. There 
were angry cries as the speaker resumed his 
seat. McGinty rose with gloom upon his brow. 

" Brother Morris/' said he, " you were 
always a croaker. So long as the members 
of this Lodge stand together there is no power 
in this United States that can touch them. 
Sure, have we not tried it often enough in the 
law courts ? I expect the big companies will 
find it easier to pay than to fight, same as the 
little companies do. An4 now, brethren " — 
McGinty took off his black velvet cap and his 
stole as he spoke — " this Lodge has finished 
its business for the evening, save for one 
small matter which may be mentioned when 
we arc parting. The time has now come for 
fraternal refreshment and for harmony." 

Strange indeed is human nature. Here 
were these men to whom murder was familiar, 
who again and again had struck down the 
father of the family, some man against whom 
they had no personal feeling, without one 
thought of compunction or of compassion 
for his weeping wife or helpless children, and 
yet the tender or pathetic in music could move 
them to tears. McMurdo had a fine tenor 
voice, and if he had failed to gain the goodwill 
of the Lodge before, it could no longer have 
been withheld after he had thrilled them with 
"I'm Sitting on the Stile, Mary," and "On 
the Banks of Allan Water." In his very first 
night the new recruit had made himself one 
of the most popular of the brethren, marked 
already for advancement and high office. 
There were other qualities needed, however, 
besides those of good fellowship, to make a 
worthy Freeman, and of these he was given 
an example before the evening was over. 
The whisky bottle had passed round many 
times, and the men were flushed and ripe for 
mischief, when their bodymaster rose once 
more to address them. 

" Boys," said he, " there's one man in this 
town that wants trimming up, and it's for 
you to see that he gets it. I'm speaking of 
James Stanger, of the Herald, Voii've seen 

how he's been opening liis mouth against us 
again ? " 

There was a murmur of assent, with many 
a muttered oath. McGinty took a slip of 
paper from his waistcoat pocket. 

" * Law and Order ! ' That's how he heads 
lc. ' Reign of Terror in the Coal and Iron 
District. Twelve years have now elapsed 
since the first assassinations which proved 
the existence of a criminal organization in 
our midst. From that day these outrages 
have never ceased, until now they have 
reached a pitch which makes us the oppro- 
brium of the civilized world. Is it for such 
results as this that our great country welcomes 
to its bosom the alien who flies from the 
despotisms of Europe ? Is it that they shall 
themselves become tyrants over the very men 
who have given them shelter, and that a state 
of terrorism and lawlessness should be estab- 
lished under the very shadow of the sacred 
folds of the starry flag of freedom which would 
raise horror in our minds if we re^d of it as 
existing under the most effete monarchy of 
the East ? The men are known. The 
organization is patent and public. How long 
are we to endure it ? Can we for ever live — ' 
Sure, I've read enough of the slush ! " cried 
the chairman, tossing the paper down upon 
the table. " That's what he says of us. The 
question I'm asking you is, What shall we say 
to him ? " 

" Kill him ! " cried a dozen fierce voices. 

" I protest against that," said Brother 
Morris, the man of the good brow and shaven 
face. " I tell you, brethren, that our hand is 
too heavy in this valley, and that there will 
come a point where, in self-defence, every 
man will unite to crush us out. James 
Stanger is an old man. He is respected in the 
township and the district. His paper stands 
for all that is solid in the valley. I f that man is 
struck down, there will be a stir through this 
State that will only end with our destruction." 

" And how would they bring about our 
destruction, Mister Stand-back ? " cried 
McGinty. " Is it by the police ? Sure, half 
of them are in our pay and half of them afraid 
of us. Or is it by the law courts and the 
judge ? Haven't we tried that before now, 
and what ever came of it ? " 

" There is a Judge Lynch that might try 
the case," said Brother Morris. 

A general shout of anger greeted the 

" I have but to raise my finger," cried 
McGinty, " <md I edd put two hundred 

me " ^fe1PFlW°^, C ' ear " ° Ut 


«lo»)1y raiding 



his voice and bending his huge black brows 
into a terrible frown : " See here, Brother 
Morris, I have my eye on you, and have had 
for some time. You've no heart yourself, 
and you try to take the heart out of others. 
It will be an ill day for you, Brother Morris, 
when your own name comes on our agenda 
paper, and I'm thinking that it's just there 
that I ought to place it." 

Morris had turned deadly pale and his 
knees seemed to give way under him as he fell 
back into his chair. He raised his glass in 
his trembling hand and drank before he could 

" I apologize, Worshipful Master, to you 
and to every brother in this Lodge if I have 
said more than I should. I am a faithful 
member — you all know that — and it is my 
fear lest evil come to the Lodge which makes 
me speak in anxious words. But I have 
greater trust in your judgment than in my 
own, Worshipful Master, and I promise you 
that I will not offend again." 

The bodymaster's scowl relaxed as he 
listened to the humble words. 

" Very good, Brother Morris. It's myself 
that would be sorry if it were needful to give 
you a lesson. But so long as I am in this 
chair we shall be a united Lodge in word and 
in deed. And now, boys," he continued, 
looking round at the company, "I'll say this 
much — that if Stanger got his full deserts 
there would be more trouble than we need ask 
for. These editors hang together, and every 
journal in the State would be crying out for 
police and troops. But I guess you can give 
him a pretty severe warning. Will you fix 
it, Brother Baldwin ? " 

" Sure ! " said the young man, eagerly. 

" How many will you take ? " 

" Half-a-dozen, and two to guard the door. 
You'll come, Gower, and you, Mansel, and 
you, Scanlan, and the two Willabys." 

" I promised the new brother he should 
go," said the chairman. 

Ted Baldwin looked at McMurdo with eyes 
which showed that he had not forgotten nor 

" Well, he can come if he wants," he said, 
in a surly voice. " That's enough. The 
sooner we get to work the better." 

The company broke up with shouts and 
yells and snatches of drunken song. The bar 
was still crowded with revellers, and many 
of the brethren remained there. The little 
band who had been told off for duty passed 
out into the street, proceeding in twos and 
threes along the sidewalk so as not to provoke 
attention, Tt was a bitterly cold night, with 

a half-moon shining brilliantly in a frosty, 
star-spangled sky. The men stopped and 
gathered in a yard which faced a high build- 
ing. The words " Vermissa Herald " were 
printed in gold lettering between the brightly- 
lit windows. From within came the clanking 
of the printing-press. 

" Here, you," said Baldwin to McMurdo ; 
" you can stand below at the door and see 
that the road is kept open for us. Arthur 
Willaby can stay with you. You others come 
with me. Have no fear, boys, for we have a 
dozen witnesses that we are in the Union bar 
at this very moment." 

It was nearly midnight, and the street was 
deserted save for one or two revellers upon 
their way home. The party crossed the road 
and, pushing open the door of the newspaper 
office, Baldwin and his men rushed in and up 
the stair which faced them. McMurdo and 
another remained below. From the room 
above came a shout, a cry for help, and then 
the sound of trampling feet and of falling 
chairs. An instant later a grey-haired man 
rushed out on to the landing. He was seized 
before he could get farther, and his spec- 
tacles came tinkling down to McMurdo' s feet. 
There was a thud and a groan. He was on 
his face and half-a-dozen sticks were clatter- 
ing together as they fell upon him. He 
writhed, and his long, thin limbs quivered 
under the blows. The others ceased at last, 
but Baldwin, his cruel face set in an infernal 
smile, was hacking at the man's head, which 
he vainly endeavoured to defend with his arms. 
His white hair was dabbled with patches 
of blood. Baldwin was still stooping over 
his victim, putting in a short, vicious blow 
whenever he could see a part exposed, when 
McMurdo dashed up the stair and pushed him 

" You'll kill the man," said he. " Drop it ! " 

Baldwin looked at him in amazement. 

" Curse you ! " he cried. " Who are you 
to interfere — you that are new to the Lodge ? 
Stand back ! " He raised his stick, but 
McMurdo had whipped his pistol out of his 
hip pocket. 

" Stand back yourself ! " he cried. " I'll 
blow your face in if you lay a hand on me. As 
to the Lodge, wasn't it the order of the body- 
master that the man was not to be killed, and 
what are you doing but killing him ? " 

" It's truth he says," remarked one of the 

" By gosh, you'd best hurry yourselves! " 
cried the man below. " The windows are all 
lighting up and you'll have the whole town- 
ship on your back inside of five minutes." 




There was indeed the sound of shouting in 
the street, and a little group of compositors 
and typesetters was forming in the hall bek>w 
and nerving itself to action, Leaving the 
limp and motionless body of the editor at the 
head of the stair, the criminals rushed down 
and made their way swiftly along the street. 

Having reached the Union House, some of 
them mixed with the cajwd in McGinty's 
saloon, whispering across the bar to the Boss 
that the job had l>een well carried through. 
Others, and among them McMurdo, broke 
away into sideutreets, atid so by devious 

paths «rMR > .W^P4WCHIGAN 

(To he continued,) 

flHILIP BAILEY made a final 
correction on the very last 
page of his monumental work 
and rose from his desk. The 
book, which had taken him 
three years to write, was 
finished. Finished at last ! 
He heaved a sigh of relief. 

English master at a public school till well 
past his prime ? the inheritance of a moderate 
fortune had enabled him to carry out the 
darling wish of his life, which was to write a 
" History of Civilization," He had desired 
to get far from the hubbub which had hitherto 
impeded his literary work, to hide away from 
newspapers, the post, chatty friends, and 
concentrate entirely upon his great book, and 
with this object in view had sought and found 
the very place, a small chateau in France, near 
to the Belgian frontier. He had bought the 
faded old house for a song, and therein he had 
buried himself with bjs library, his pens, ink, 
and paper* Immersed in his work, he seldom 
strayed beyond his grounds. The Ch&teau 
Bordelais was situated in the very heart of 
the country, the nearest village being three 
miles distant. 





Illustrated by 
\Varwick Reynolds. 

The small lodge by the entrance-gates 
was occupied by an old woman whose 
surname Philip Bailey had never properly 
grasped — he knew her as kt Marthe "—and 
her grandson, sixteen - year - old Pierre, and 
these two attended to his* wants* 

Pierre, bright-eyed and adventurous, had 
long ago written down Philip Bailey as a 
harmless lunatic, A gentleman with plenty 
of money who lived alone in a large house and 
got so busy writing that he often omitted to 
take his meals — what else could he be ? 
Nevertheless, Pierre was quite content to 
have a harmless lunatic as his master, for the 
lad found himself free to roam the groundSj to 
rob the nests in the tall trees ? and pluck the 
fruit in the neglected garden, with none to say 
him nay. So Philip Bailey, old Marthe, and 
Pierre made a perfectly-satisfied trio. 

But Philip Bailey had at last finished his 
book, Now he would walk into the village 
and order a conveyance to take him to 
the railway -stat ion on the following day. So, 
procuring his hat and stick, he passed out 
into the brilliant August sunshine, walking 
leisurely^ for his book was finished* 

The walk to the village of St. Joseph, 
through lonely country, was a familiar one to 
Philip Bailey, One might say he knew every 
yard of it. His way lay mainly through 
cornfields, and he was a little surprised to 
find that a start ]nd not yet been made with 
the harvesting. He had expected to find 
the reaping-machines hard at work and the 
women following in their train to tie up the 

^^R^^tcffl*.^ he perceive " 



le breasted the long, gentle slope beyond 
which, in the valley, nestled the village 
that supplied his simple wants. Descending 
the slope, he at length found himself in the 
croft of the little auherge whose one convey- 
ance he proposed to charter for the following 
day. Not a soul was visible. He knocked 
upon the hark door, then 7 receiving no re- 
sponse , opened it. The kitchen was empty. 
He passed through into the inn proper. It 
was empty. 

(i They must all have gone to some fite" 
thought the scholar as he gazed through an 
old-fashioned window into the street, and at 
that moment a man driving a lean pony 
harnessed to a ramshackle cart piled with 
household belongings went past, thrashing 
his steed to greater efforts. Seeing the face 
at the window, the fellow pulled up, gesticu- 
lating backwards with his whip. Philip 
Bailey went out. 

"What is it?" he said. "Where is 
everybody ? n 

The peasant stared at him in amazement. 

t( Is it that you are pleased to jest at such 
a time, or are you mad ? " 

Bailey waved aside both suggestions. 
" Where is everybody? 1? he asked. 

" Ddpickes-vous I H shrilled a voice, as a 
woman's head suddenly appeared from be- 
neath a pile of bedding. " Hurry , bitise, or 
we'll be spitted and roasted like pheasants/' 
'* Chi t Silence, woman ! " exclaimed the 
driver of the cart. " Here is one inquiring 
what the matter may be, I take it he is an 
English tourist. They are all mad/' 

" I live at the CMteau Bordelais/' said 
Philip Bailey 3 with dignity, u and I have 
walked over to the village here to "order a 
conveyance for to-morrow* I find the place 

iE Ah, then, it is as I supposed/' said the 
peas ant , taking a new grip of his reins. " You 
arQthemadEnglish man — pa rdo n! 
it is our country talk — who lives 
alone at the ch&teau. Then you 
have not heard that we are at 
u War ! ,f 

"Aye, at wan And that is 

why everybody has flown, for our 

troops have been pressed back, 

and the * Boches ' they are 

coming over the hills yonder. 

Nothing can stop them — there are 

millions of them — and they burn 

and kill where% T er they go. So 

have a care for yourself." 

And the man whipped up his 

nag and was off. He turned once, pointing 

with his whip in the direction of the hills. 

The sound of his wheels at length died away., 

and Philip Bailey, scholar and recluse, was 

left standing alone in the single deserted 

street of St. Joseph, 

It was, then, war. The country was at 
war with the " Boches " — Germany, And 
he — he for weeks had been so immersed in 
study, so held, as in a vice, by the fascination 
of his work, that he had not opened n paper 
or conversed with a living soul 

He remembered now that the last time one 
of those idie fits had come upon him, and he 
had dropped his pen to roam about, chat with 
old Marthe and such stray peasants as he 
came across, and read the papers, a cloud had 
been present over Eastern Europe, Austria 
had invaded Servia. There was talk of 
Russia intervening. There was a hint that 
Germany would side with her ally, and France 
with hers. But the Foreign Offices of the 
Great Powers were at the same time busy 
patching the matter up. Such clouds had often 
appearUol I bffiirfej fttJ IbMlfl - i:api dly dispersed. 



He had noticed a newspaper in the inn — a 
flimsy rag, but it would contain information 
of some sort. He walked into the place again 
and picked up the paper. It was a week old, 
but it told him enough. 

With startled eyes he read the feverish 
paragraphs. Never did an ill-printed rag 
hold such absolutely fresh news for a reader ! 
Europe was in a blaze. Against Austria and 
Germany were pitted France, Russia, and — 
yes — England. The scholar rubbed his eyes. 
It had come, then. The long-talked-of war 
had come. France and Russia, he knew, 
wert merely incidental foes. In the world's 
eyes the principal combatants would be 
Germany and England. 

He had soon read enough, and a glance at 
the empty street without told him that he 
was in a perilous position. The inhabitants 
of St. Joseph had fled like frightened pullets 
before the approaching Huns. And he, 
Philip Bailey, the deadly enemy of these 
merciless devastators, was lingering. 

There was not another moment to be lost. 
His way to safety was obviously along the 
road taken by the peasant's cart, but there 
existed a thing that was more precious to him 
even than his own safety — that of his manu- 
script. It meant going back in the direction 
from which the cart had come — not straight 
back, but diverging to the right ; still, that 
was the direction in which the danger lay. 
Thither the whip had been pointed. He had 
his opportunity to take time by the forelock 
and follow other fugitives. Every minute, it 
would seem, was precious. Yet he could 
not. Back upon his tracks he must go. 
Another night, and his ch&teau might be 
discovered and given to the flames. He 
must save his manuscript. The darling 
work he had lived with for three years must 
be rescued, no matter at what risk to 

Thrusting the newspaper into his pocket, 
he strode out of the inn and across the yard ; 
with speedy steps he went back up the croft 
and climbed the slope beyond. On its sum- 
mit he paused and looked away to the right, 
the direction indicated by the whip. A com- 
plete peace seemed to hold the golden fields 
through which he must pass. He could dis- 
tinguish no living figure in the immediate 
countryside. It was possible that his 
sequestered chateau miiht escape entirely 
the observation of the invaders. He prayed 
it might be so. Yet he had read enough of 
their doings to know that it would be unwise 
to linger there. Would these simple non- 
combatants of St. Tos^ph have flpH had not 

the reputation of the approaching host given 
them wings of terror ? 

He walked on through the corn. How 
peacefully, less than an hour previously, he 
had come this way, stretching his limbs 
joyfully after his long inactivity ! His great 
task completed, he had almost whistled in 
his content. And now, to save that work 
from the ravaging foe, he was turning back 
across the path of that foe. Before, he had 
noted with pleasure all the points of beauty 
on his way. Now, he cursed the roughnesses 
that made him stumble. 

On through the corn. He was sadly out 
of condition, and the perspiration poured 
from his brow. His heart fluttered. He 
was an elderly man, and not a robust one. 
Through the golden corn he walked in hot 
haste, to save the book which was to him wife 
and child, treasure, everything in the world. 

At last he was crossing the plank bridge 
that spanned a little stream which marked 
one boundary of his tiny estate. Entering 
the orchard where Pierre stole unrebuked 
and unhindered, he passed among the gnarled 
trees to the gate which pierced his garden 
wall. He unlocked it, locked it again, and 
hurried through the overgrown garden to his 

All was quiet as it had been any day these 
last three years. How still and quiet it was ! 
After all, was he in a needless panic ? Were 
not the odds plainly against the invaders 
noticing this remote chateau among its trees ? 
And if they did come — an elderly scholar was 
small game for their big sabres. Then he 
remembered what the soiled newspaper had 
said of les barbares — how they had taken a 
white-haired village mayor and his grandson 
and shot themr Why ? Because an old 
fowling-piece had been found in the attic of 
their house. And there were other stories 
which told him that it was unwise to be found 
in the path of an army which seemed to slay 
without mercy. 

He must go. He would pack his manu- 
script into a bag with a few necessaries, and 
depart. First, however, he would warn old 
Marthe and the boy of the approaching 
danger. They would, no doubt, have some 
snug hiding-place near at hand. 

He would warn them at once. So promi- 
nently had his book loomed in his mind that 
he had almost forgotten the faithful creatures. 

Going to the front door, Philip Bailey 
threw it open. And then stood motionless. 

For, advancing up the drive which had so 
long ouilivpcj the splendours <sf the days that 



had seen its fashioning, he perceived a small 
body of cavalry. It was quite a small party, 
twelve or sixteen in number. They wore 
helmets and carried lances. They were fine 
men, excellently mounted, and their air was 
one of easy unconcern. 

Had he acted at once, the scholar could 
have closed the door, snatched up his manu- 
script, and been away down the garden and 
through the door into the orchard ere they 
could reach these steps. The garden door, 
locked on his side, must be battered down. 
Beyond, the corn grew high, and there were 
thickets affording cover. Always supposing 
that they bothered to follow Wm. But he 
stood motionless. He was, after all, an 
Englishman. And he was master of this 
ch&teau. Both very good reasons for staying 
where he was. 

The horsemen came to a standstill in front 
of the house. The officer at their head 

" Nous proposons a demander Vhospitalili 
de votre chateau ce soir, m'sieu," he said, his 
accent, however, conveying as little of 
request as of French nationality. 

" My ch&teau is at your service, Hen- 
Lieu tenant," the scholar replied, in German. 

The officer seemed a little taken aback. 
In the first place, he was surprised to be 
answered so promptly and fluently in his own 
tongue ; in the second, the voice of the 
ch&teau's master sounded strangely familiar. 

" You are not a Frenchman, trtsieu ? " 

" I am an Englishman, Herr Lieutenant." 

The Uhlans looked at one another. An 
Englische 1 One spat. The Belgian they 
despised as a common rat ; the Frenchman 
they were prepared to like when they had 
crushed him again ; the Englishman they 
feared and hated above all others. 

The lieutenant silenced his men with a 
gesture. Then he gazed closely at the 
scholar's thin, intellectual face. 

" You are, I believe," he said, in English, 
" Mr. Philip Bailey, once, or possibly still, of 
Radford College ? " 

" That is so." 

" You do not, apparently, remember me ? " 

Philip Bailey flung his mind back over the 
long years he had spent at Radford. It was 
nothing strange for a German boy to have 
passed through his hands — boys of all 
nationalities, even Chinese, had come to be 
schooled within those grey walls. 

For the moment, however, he had to admit 
— with regret, for his lapse of memory was 
hardly tactful in the circumstances — that the 
speaker's personality was unfamiliar to him. 

The lieutenant swung himself out of the 

" The circumstances of our parting would 
remain in the memory of the boy rather than 
of the master," he said, as with jingle of spur 
and clank of sabre-scabbard he strode into the 
stone-flagged hall. " Cannot you remember 
Schnadhorst, whose career ended rather 
abruptly when he was the most promising 
pupil of your English classes ? " 

He turned and faced his old master. 

" I seem to recollect something of it," said 
the scholar, hazily. 

"Later I will recall the matter to your 
memory in detail. For the moment I will 
beg you, with the least possible amount of 
delay, to conduct me to your bath-room, for 
I have not had my clothes off for a week. 
And it is August ! " 

He laughed easily, in the well-bred, public- 
school way, as he put his strong, g^qntleted 
hand on his old master's thin arnj v a£d they 
went up the staircase together. 

" It is natural you should forget, sir — as 
natural, too, that I should never have for- 
gotten — that I was expelled from Radford." 

The Herr Lieutenant was bathed, changed 
into clean under-raiment borrowed from 
Philip Bailey — rather amused by the mixture 
of insolence and courtesy with which the 
loan was, so to say, enforced — and at length 
seated at such modest food as the place 
afforded. The old schoolmaster was a man 
of Spartan habits, and it was clear that the 
soldier had expected something better from 
a place of the ch&teau's pretensions. How- 
ever, Mr. Bailey had a few bottles of very 
good wine, and these he. set before his guest. 

" I fear you do not feed your house, Mr. 
Bailey, any better than you did at Radford," 
murmured the young man, as he plied knife 
and fork upon a lean chicken. " My men are 
grumbling over your empty larder." 

" I am sorry," said Bailey. " I was not 
expecting this — invasion." 

" You foresaw the possibility of such a 
visit, it would almost appear ? " suggested 
the lieutenant, filling his glass. 

" On the contrary. I had no idea a war 
was in progress until this afternoon." 

The soldier gaped at him. 

" Why — do you never read a paper? Do 
you hold no communication with the outer 

" I have been busy — absorbed — in a work 
I have beeji engaged upon since I left 







" And how long ago would that be ? " 

" Three years." 

" You survived me, then, by just that 
length of time. It is just six years since I 

A frown crossed the soldier's face. He 
drained his glass, and his countenance cleared. 

" Come, your wine is not so bad. Join me 
in a glass, and we'll drink a truce to old scores." 

Philip Bailey refilled his guest's glass, then* 
filled one for himself, and they drank. He 
was beginning to remember Schnadhorst — a 
clever, persevering boy, the sort of boy a 
master likes to push on, self-confident almost 
to arrogancy, and not too popular with his 
schoolfellows. With difficulty — since for 
years his thoughts had been concentrated on 
his great book — he began to recall that there 
had been some trouble over a breaking-out 
at night, and that Schnadhorst had had to go. 

" For, indeed, sir, I was not to blame," 
cried the German, seeming to read what was 
passing in his old tutor's mind. " The other 
boy was seen, and at the same moment it was 
noticed that I . was absent from my room, 
though it wasn't noticed in his case. As a 
matter of fact, I was at the bath-room window, 
from which he had let himself down. Losing 
heart, he signalled to me to pull him up. It 
was a queer muddle, but I was convicted of 
breaking-out, and, on your report, received 
the unhappy dispatch." 

" I remember now. So those were the 
facts ? Well, why did you not deny having 
been out ? You do not appear to have de- 
fended yourself." 

With a curious gesture the lieutenant 
applied himself to his supper again. 

" Call it quixotism ! Besides, I owed him 
something. He had saved me from drown- 
ing. Further inquiry would have showed 
that he was out of his room, too. He had 
been in trouble before, and it was his last 
chance. It meant for him an office instead 
of the University. So I went." 

" How did he come to let you ? " 

" I suppose I insisted. Donnerl this is a 
tough old hen ! I was the stronger character. 
I argued speciously that we were both in the 
same box. By chance he had gone down first. 
So I went." 

Philip Bailey paced the room thoughtfully. 
It was curious that he should come thus to 
learn the true tale of that night. He had 
been sorry to lose Schnadhorst, a promising 

The lieutenant raised his glass again. 
" Never mind ! In this I drown my score 
against you." 

Vol. xlix.-35. 

The scholar halted and looked at him. 

" You think, then, Lieutenant Schnadhorst, 
that you have a i score ' against me ? You 
are a man now, and will surely admit that I 
acted rightly in reporting you ? " 

The soldier raised a flushed face from his 

" Pooh I A boyish freak ! " he said, hotly. 
" Had I offended before ? And had I not 
been industrious when those other oafs were 
idling their time away ? To break me on the 
wheel for a trifling ' lark ' like that ! " 

There was a touch of malevolence in his 
strong, handsome face. 

" You felt it a good deal, then ? " 

" Felt it ! The sentence imposed on me 
shattered my life's ambition. It was my 
wish to be a scholar, to go afterwards to 
Oxford. Instead, I was returned to Germany 
like a bale of rejected goods. My father was 
furious over the disgrace. Then, as I had 
failed in my ambition, he consoled himself by 
making me what it had been his secret wish 
I should be — a soldier. So I am a soldier. 
I had hoped my path would lie among books ; 
instead, I cross yours again with a sword by 
my side." 

" Well, it is a profession with great possi- 

The German rose, his eyes flashing. 

" With the greatest, now that we have at 
last begun. For a time I hankered for my 
books, but now I am heart and soul a soldier. 
We have got the whole world on the run, Mr. 
Bailey, and it is good to be a conqueror. 
Radford shall hear of me again, of that I do 
assure you." He swept arrogantly by the 
lean scholar, and came clanking back again. 
But now he was smiling. " May I beg a 
cigar, and then I should like to hear some- 
thing of this great work you have been 
engaged upon — perhaps, even, privileged to 
glance at its pages ? " 

Philip Bailey fetched his cigars, and with 
them he brought his manuscript. The soldier 
lit a -weed ; then, settling himself in an easy- 
chair, turned over the pages. 

From the back quarters of the ch&teau 
came a roar of coarse laughter. With an 
exclamation, the young officer sprang up and 
strode to the door. " Ruhig, ihr schweine / " 
he roared. " Do you hear, you pigs, silence I " 
And he returned to his chair. 

" I will see if they have all they want," 
said Philip Bailey. 

The student turned soldier grunted, pulled 
hard at his cigar, and settled himself to his 

'^vSfms^mmm'L, «d bent 



shoulders, went quietly down the long passage 
leading to th^omestic quarters. Sprawling 
all over the Kitchen he found the Uhlans, 
their arms piled in a corner, their helmets 
perched on the dresser, their tunics un- 
fastened. Old Marthe, assisted by the 
youngest of the party, went from one to the 
other with frizzling bacon and coffee. They 
were eating ravenously. The sergeant, served 
next to his lieutenant and now satisfied, was 
smoking tobacco emitting a pungent odour. 

" Ah, m'sieu, what are these morsels among 
these so big mouths ! " cried the old woman 
to Bailey. " But I have done my best, and 
I have sent Pierre for fruit." 

" I will see how he is getting on," said 
Bailey, picking his way through the big jack- 
boots and passing into the garden. 

" Be careful not to stray too far," growled 
the sergeant, sternly. 

Bailey understood the hint. The Germans 
were advancing through a hostile country, 
and this was evidently a small party thrown 
forward to feel the way. At any moment 
they might have to snatch up their arms and 
fight or fly, according to circumstances. The 
ch&teau stood in a sequestered spot, yet a 
shot or a signal might make their whereabouts 
known to a similar party of Belgians or 

After the kitchen, with its guzzling, cursing, 
joking warriors, the walled-in garden was a 
haven of peace. But how long was it likely 
to remain so ? Following upon the heels 
of its scouts would come the main army 
pillaging, burning, and killing. He could not 
expect to have the good fortune to encounter 
another old pupil in a commanding officer. 
His course plainly, when these troopers had 
gone, was to take his precious manuscript 
and make a bee-line for safety. 

For the moment, however, he had to see 
that the simple fare of his chateau was 
supplemented by the fruit which grew so 
abundantly in his orchard. Pierre had his 
own way round into the orchard. Bailey 
unlocked the garden gate and went out among 
the fruit-trees. He looked everywhere for 
the boy's small, lithe form, but could not see 
it. Among the gnarled trees he wandered, 
peering about anxiously. If the lad, fright- 
ened by the sight of these fierce Uhlans, had 
cut and run, the consequences, he appre- 
hended, might be serious. The soldiers 
would suspect treachery, and there would be 
immediate trouble. 

He searched the orchard thoroughly, but 
could see nothing of the boy. Making a 
ditour, he passed into the little park fronting 

his ch&teau. Still seeking Pierre, he was 
crossing his park in the direction of the lodge 
when the glint of a helmet showed him that 
the entrance-gates were sentinelled. Pierre 
would not be there. So, retracing his steps 
to the house, he passed round to the back 
and re-entered the kitchen, to find the troopers 
asleep to a man. 

" I cannot find the boy," he said, in a low 
voice, to old Marthe. 

She wrung her hands. " Ah ! they will 
be furious when they awake. They have 
demanded fruit." 

" Give me a basket. I will gather some 

" Yes, yes. Let us keep them appeased." 

He took a large basket from her trembling 
hands and went forth to the orchard. 
Curious that he, once the stern tutor of that 
youth within there, should now be humbly 
plucking fruit for the rough men under that 
youth's command. But such was war ! Of 
what importance was the scholar now ? 
Might was right, and the knowledge of the 
learned man would not protect an inch of his 

He filled the basket and took it to the 
kitchen. Old Marthe nodded approvingly. 
" That gamin I I will warm his coat for 
him ! " she said, beneath her breath. " To 
think that you, his master " 

But Bailey silenced her with uplifted hand, 
and went on to the salle-a-tnanger. 

" Ah ! this is fine," cried the soldier as he 
entered. " I almost forget my cigar while I 
read you. My Emperor would love you. 
' There cannot be peace without war ; it is a 
necessary prelude. Every advance in civil- 
ization has been preceded by an apparently 
retrograde movement. Caesar was a bene- 
factor to the ancient Briton as Norman 
William was to the savage Saxon. The 
grandson of the conquered Zulu shall have 
his revenge on you in the class-rooms. The 
shattering of the Armada ushered in peace 
and Shakespeare, and the bloody energies 
culminating in Waterloo found a subsequent 
vent in the building of churches.' Wisdom 
most ripe, Mr. Bookworm. You have the 
nervous, vivid sentence of Macaulay, and you 
have not mixed it with water, like Birrell. 
But your book is not finished. You have yet 
to add that the insanitary hovels we have 
burnt in Belgium will be succeeded by far 
more wholesome dwellings, while Louvain, 
though she has lost her library, will now have 
an opportunityj ^jfit reduce a new drainage 

Sy Trft™<MMN pkasure as 



"OLD marthk whkt from onb to thr other, wi 





he noted the genuine enthusiasm of his ex- 
pupil, but before he could utter a word of 
acknowledgment or comment his attention 
was arrested by a loud cry coming from the 
direction of the park. 

Glancing out, Bailey saw Pierre's slender 
form darting across the green sward, a 
mounted Uhlan in pursuit. The. Uhlan 
raised his lance, the boy cowered and dropped. 
Goaded to his feet by a touch from the lance's 
sharp point, the lad arose and scurried before 
the horse. And so they came at length to 
the front door, where the Uhlan dismounted, 
clutched the lad by the neck, and dragged 
him into the chateau. His shrill cries brought, 
old Marthe running from the kitchen and the 
troopers out of their slumbers. . The sergeant 
emerged from the kitchen rubbing his eyes. 
The trooper spoke rapidly to him. Hearing 
what he said, the sergeant laid a heavy hand 
on old Marthe's shoulder and, calling another 
man, bade him hold her. Then he marched 
into his superior's presence. 

" Pardon, Herr Lieutenant ! " he said, 
bringing his heels together with a click and 
his hand to his forehead. " Muller reports 
the lad has fixed a flag to a tall tree yonder. 
It is to betray us. No doubt the old woman 
instructed him." 

" Shoot them," said Schnadhorst, briefly. 

The sergeant saluted, and withdrew. 

Philip Bailey stood aghast, staring 
dumbly at the soldier. For the moment he 
could not believe his ears. Were these, his 
faithful attendants for three years, to be 
butchered in cold blood before his eyes ? 
Could it all be real — this sudden invasion of 
a fierce enemy and this sharp, short sentence 
upon the humble peasants who had supplied 
his simple wants ? 

But the fragrant odour of the cigar per- 
meated the room. The soldier was a live 
figure. He was not dreaming. He roused 

" Lieutenant, you cannot do this ! " he 
cried, hoarsely. " Why, they are most 
harmless creatures ! " 

" Think you so, Mr. Bailey ? Then they 
shall have trial." 

He strode to the door. " Bringen das 
ungeziefer/" he rasped, and walked back, 

Whining and expostulating, the " vermin " 
were dragged in, the blood running from the 
wound in the boy's leg caused by the lance. 
The old woman prostrated herself before the 

" Mercy, Monsieur le Commandant ! 'Twas 
but a baby's prank. It was just to amuse 
himself, and he is but a child." 

" Children must be taught not to play 
these games in times of war," said Schnad- 
horst, coldly, " and you are to blame for 
•permitting it." He gestured to Bailey. 
" They have given information. What plea 
can you advance for them ? " 

The eyes of the old woman and the young 
lad were fixed 'beseechingly on their master. 
He alone, they knew, stood between them and 
the death that awaited them out there in the 
last rays of the sunlight. 

'"Is it a crime, lieutenant, to hoist one's 
national flag on a tree ? Would not a child 
like this so amuse himself ? Where is the 
sin in it ? And where, in the old woman's 
case, is there any sin at all ? " 

" She sent him out with the pretence that 
he was to pluck fruit for us," growled the 
sergeant, " but in reality, Herr Lieutenant, 
to hoist his flag. It would attract such 
Fran$ais as were passing." 

" Call the man who took him, sergeant." 

" Muller ! " thundered the sergeant, and 
the trooper entered. He saluted. 

" Tell us quickly what he did." 

" I saw the flag appear at the top of a high 
tree yonder, Herr Lieutenant," said the man, 
pointing, " and I saw the boy appear at the 
foot of the tree. He ran, but I caught him. 
That is all." 

" I can see it," said Schnadhorst, gazing 
across the park. 

" He was trying to lower it, Monsieur le 
Commandant," cried old Marthe. "I told 
him, ' When you go get the fruit, lower your 
little flag, or we shall be in trouble.' " 

But the boy only whimpered, and Bailey 
knew that the woman was lying to shield him. 
His heart grew cold. 

" Nothing could be plainer. Whilst we 
have been enjoying their master's hospitality, 
these people have been endeavouring to 
betray us. Enough ! " And with a gesture 
to the sergeant Schnadhorst turned towards 
his chair. 

The poor things, shrinking away from the 
rough hands of sergeant and trooper, clung 
to one another with dismal cries. The old 
dame was guiltless enough ; the high-spirited 
boy, thrilled by a desire to serve his country, 
could not have counted the cost when he ran 
up his toy flag. Ever since the war started 
he had amused himself with this flag at the 
top of a tree, and when the moment had 
come to use it in earnest he had not held back. 
But the realities of warfare bad not come 






home to him, and now he shivered and wept 
as the click of carbines fell upon his ear. To 
die here, in his pleasant playground ! 

Wriggling away from the trooper, he caught 
Bailey by the legs, begging him once more to 
plead for them. The old woman, moaning, 
was dragged out by the sergeant. The trooper 
grabbed roughly at the boy. 

" Delay this matter for one minute while 
I speak to you, lieutenant/' implored the 

" One minute only," replied Schnadhorst. 
" Take the lad away, Muller, and wait." 

" I will do so," said the trooper, picking up 
Pierre as if he had been a babe and bearing 
him out. He closed the door, and master and 
pupil were alone again. 

" Well, sir ? " 

"Lieutenant, have you no mercy ? " 

" I am at war with you, sir, and with these 
people. A signal calculated to bring down 
the enemy on me is an act of treachery, and 
there is only one punishment for that." 

" But he is such a child ! Do you war with 
children ? And I will swear the old creature 
was no party to it." 

The lieutenant turned to his old master 
with a curious expression on his face. 

" I was a child when I broke out of Radford 
College. What mercy had you on me ? 
None. You turned me from my ambition." 
He pointed to the manuscript. " There lay 
my heart — in work like that. So happy I 
would have been ! But you turned me back 
for playing a childish prank ! You taught 
me. You will observe I have benefited by 
your lead. However, I was given a night. 
You shall have the same." He walked to the 
door and snapped a brief instruction to the 
sergeant. " I have given them till day- 
break," he said, returning. " Better so, per- 
haps. A shot may rob us of a night's sleep." 

And by that time the scholar had made up 
his mind on a last desperate throw. Some- 
thing new had crept into his thin veins. 
Bookworm and pedant he might be, a slender 
and useless thing opposed to these armed 
men, just now flushed and arrogant with 
success, yet the thought had come to him 
that he was an Englishman, And there is 
magic in the name. 

A bundle of nerves and devitalized by 
over-study, he was not physically fit to play 
the hero, and as he prepared to make his last 
throw he was deadly pale and in great fear. 
But the plight of the two poor creatures had 
stiffened him. The atmosphere of war was 
about him, and life seemed to be a cheap 

" Hear me, lieutenant," he said, in a hoarse 
voice. " The old woman is innocent, but 
the boy is guilty — and upon my instructions." 

Schnadhorst laughed. " Clumsy, Mr. 
Bailey, and without even the merit of origin- 
ality. But it is plucky of you. I take it that 
you offer yourself in his place ? " 

The scholar could not answer. Neverthe- 
less, by his silence he implied that such was 
the case. 

" Do not be guilty of such quixotism, I 
i^nplore you, sir." The lieutenant went on 
quickly : " It is my fault. I should not have 
told you of myself. iJuch sacrifices should 
never be confessed. Now, come, I don't 
believe you. Tell you what — I'll let the old 
woman off. I can't go farther than that. 
War is war." 

But Bailey was haunted by the eyes of the 
lad staring out so fearfully from his white 

" But war is not murder." 

" I want no insults ! " snarled the officer. 
" Remember, I can put you by their side if I 
like. My sergeant would without any com- 

" I can believe it," said Bailey, bitterly. 
" And I would show him, and all your pack 
of cowards, that an Englishman is not afraid." 

" Pooh ! You are trembling as you stand 
there ! " 

" Because I have put all my manhood and 
strength into that book. I have not grown 
accustomed, like you, to the feel of steel and 
the sound of bullets. Nevertheless, I tell you 
that if you shoot this lad it will be murder 
most foul. Radford was indeed well rid of 
you, Lieutenant Schnadhorst, if you permit 
this crime." 

" That is enough," snarled the German. 
" Here, I will allow you this honour. I will 
test the Radford code of pluck. You say you 
offer yourself for the boy ? " 

" I do." 

The soldier showed his strong white teeth 
in a sardonic grin. 

" Bravely said ! But the daybreak is 
cold. Let us see how you will like the look 
of the carbines in the grey of the morning. 
Hi, there ! " he shouted. " One of you ! " 

A trooper came clanking out of the kitchen. 

" This gentleman is going to his room. 
Which room ? " he asked Bailey. 

" My study." 

"Be it so. This gentleman goes to his 
study. He will leave it at his peril." 

" So, Herr Lieutenant." 

" Where are the otliers ? " 

" They are locked in a cellar," 

Master and pupil. 


u You may release them at daybreak." 

The trooper stared. The lieutenant waved 
his hand towards the scholar. 

" My host takes upon himself full blame for 
the hoisting of the flag, and will pay the 
penalty. Post a man outside his study 
window and lock the door." 

" It is your order, lieutenant." 

" And so, Mr. Bailey " — the soldier drew his 
heels together and bowed — " it is my honour 
to wish you good night." 


For some hours Philip Bailey had sat 
motionless. So rapid had been the march 
of events that he could hardly realize that he 
sat in his worn leather work-chair a condemned 

It seemed but a few moments ago that he 
had put down his pen and walked out into 
the sunlight like a schoolboy bound for home 
and holidays. And now he was back, with 
death awaiting him at daybreak. 

Death ! A thing he had hardly con- 
sidered. A moment's agony, and he was to 
pass from this bright world and its teeming 
interests to a Beyond upon which, wrapt in 
study, he had bestowed little attention. 

His offer to die in the boy's place had been 
wrung from him by the thought of that boy 
lying, torn by bullets, with glazed eyes and 
fresh young face upturned to the heavens. 
He was no hero, but he had felt that for ever 
he would be haunted by that still white face 
if he stood by and permitted such a massacre. 
For he was sure that Schnadhorst would 
show no mercy. Callous he had ever been, 
and this strange rencontre of master and 
pupil had revived bitter memories of what he 
considered a cruel injustice. The Radford 
expulsion, the blighting of his youthful hopes, 
was to be paid back in deadly measure. The 
ex-schoolmaster could see that the stern 
sentence passed upon the youth had left an 
ineradicable scar. And then — it was war- 
time, and without doubt the safety of himself 
and his men had been jeopardized by the 
hoisting of the flag. 

And so for hours Bailey had been sitting 
there with such thoughts chasing each other 
through his numbed brain. The night was 
stealing on. Was he to be found as he had 
been left — with nothing done ? He must 
command himself, and put his affairs in order. 
He must make such efforts that it should be 
said he faced his fate calmly. 

It was with difficulty that he collected his 
thoughts for such a purpose. Though he 
resorted to them but seldom, he kept various 

liqueurs in a cabinet. Forcing himself to act, 
he rose, walked to the cabinet, and poured 
himself a strong dram. Then, with hands that 
trembled, he set himself to perform his task. 
He had money to bequeath, he had directions 
to give as to his literary undertakings. He 
must write a letter or two. The liqueur 
warmed and stiffened him, and he bent 
resolutely to his work. Once he had started, 
the literary habit helped him, and somehow, 
though the forming of each sentence was an 
agony, he wrote what he had got to write. 
He wrote to his best friend, the head of an 
Oxford college, telling him of his end, but 
mentioning nothing of his sacrifice. He 
wrote to his favourite sister, and his pen 
trembled a little as he referred to her eldest 
child, a girl of twelve, his god-daughter. He 
made his will. He would ask the lieutenant 
and sergeant to witness it. 'Twould be one 
of the strangest testaments — if, with these 
other missives, it should reach England — 
ever entered for probate. How the lawyers 
would stare at the bold Uhlan signatures ! 

And now he would go through his papers. 
There were masses of them in his desk. He 
was an untidy man, and had bundled them 
into his trunks anyhow when he left England, 
and from the trunks he had bundled them 
into desks and drawers in his study. It 
seemed odd that he should have brought into 
exile with him such things as Radford 
examination - papers, letters dealing with 
matters connected with the " House " he had 
governed, and tradesmen's bills even. But 
for years before resigning his post at the 
English public school Philip Bailey had been 
dreaming of the great " History of Civiliza- 
tion" he would one day write, and it had 
been his custom to jot down notes, suggesting 
trains of thought, on the first piece of paper 
that came to hand ; hence, in preserving the 
notes, he had, of * necessity, preserved the 
letters, examination-papers, and bills on 
which they had been inscribed. 

Hardly glancing at the litter as he dragged 
it out of one drawer and another, he flung it 
into the empty grate. Now and again he 
paused over some signature, and his heart 
ached as he recognized familiar handwritings 
and hospitable addresses. He gathered 
energy as he proceeded. Bills, letters, 
examination - papers — into the wide old 
eighteenth-century grate they went. What 
a bonfire — nay, the thought stabbed him to 
the heart — what a funeral pyre they would 
make ! 

At ieni9f)}\ 1 ER3r¥4 > OPWfCTBCBCrf feelin e of 

chill. His reading-lamp shone less brightly ; 



grey streaks of light were stealing through the 
chinks of the shutters. Day was breaking. 

He must hasten. One drawer yet remained. 
LikeTthe others, it was full of notes he had 
made for his History. Mechanically he 
glanced at each document ere he flung it on 
to the mass in the grate. He had been glad 
to be free of the burden of all this corre- 
spondence that he had turned into memory- 
tablets. What would he not give now to be 
able to shoulder the burden again ! It would 
not matter how tiresome or how long the 
mothers' letters were 

He started. There, before him, was the 
very name now most prominent in his 
thoughts. Schnadhorst. And — yes — it con- 
cerned that fatal exploit of his. 

Thus it ran : — 

Head Master's House, 

Radford School. 

My Dear Bailey, — I have given Schnadhorst 's case 
my full consideration, bearing in mind the very favour- 
able report you have supplied of his character and the 
reasons you extend as to why clemency should be 
particularly exercised in his case. I am sorry, but 
upon reflection I cannot see my way to fall in with 
your views. Two years ago, as he knew well, a boy 
Jost his life when engaged in this verv operation, and 
the penalty attending similar escapades was common 
knowledge to all. A rule like this must be strictly 
enforced. I have written fully to his father, and I am 
sure he will understand. — Yours very truly, 

John Bruce Menzies. 

Philip Bailey's heart beat fast. That such 
a letter had been written had entirely passed 
from his mind. He had forgotten the episode. 
Until this moment he had been ignorant that 
he had ever pleaded for Schnadhorst. That 
he had troubled to keep this epistle, contain- 
ing, as it did, what amounted to a life- 
sentence on an erring boy, was explained by 
a hardly-decipherable note, suggesting .a 
chapter for his History, scribbled on the 
fourth page. And yet the scribbling of that 
note had resulted in the preservation of 
proof that he had in his time pleaded for the 
man at whose bidding he sat here condemned 
to death. 

The handle of the door moved, the key 
turned. Bailey sat rigid. They were coming 
for him. 

The door opened and Schnadhorst strode 
in. With much the same swagger, with the 
same half-insolent smile quivering at the 

corners of his mouth, he had entered Bailey's 
study at Radford. 

The strong young soldier gazed down upon 
the elderly student. 

" Well, Mr. Bailey, have you changed your 
mind ? " 

Bailey passed his tongue over his dry lips. 

" No," he said, his voice seeming to come 
from a far distance. " But — will you read 
this ? " 

And he handed the head master's letter to 
the Uhlan. 

The young man read it, and read it again. 

" You begged for me ? " 

" It would appear that — I urged clemency." 

" Yes." Schnadhorst's eyes were on the 
letter. " You spoke for me. And all these 
years I have harboured the most intense 
hatred for you." He held out his hand. " I 
will ask your forgiveness." 

As Bailey put out his hand his whole being 
throbbed wildly with hope. This letter, then, 
had turned the scale. 

" And, I assure you, it is with great regret 
that I cannot commute your sentence. Those 
dogs in the kitchen would talk about it." 

He turned away. As if struck physically, 
Bailey fell back in his chair. So, after all ■ 

Schnadhorst swung round. 

" Though, of course, while your guard is 
called to his breakfast, you may take advan- 
tage of his absence " 

" Why do you torture me ? " the school- 
master demanded, hoarsely. 

" I merely give you, sir," answered the 
other, " a friendly hint. If, in the course of 
taking it, you are shot " — he shrugged his 
big shoulders — " it will be the fortune of war." 
He walked to the door. " They are stirring, 
and it must not be known I have seen you." 

Smiling, he went out, locking the door after 

Ten minutes later Philip Bailey was hasten- 
ing up a cornfield. At the top of it he looked 
back. He passed through another, and looked 
back again. Through a third he sped, his 
breath coming heavily. Then he crept along 
a hedge and, entering a wood, sought its 
deepest glade, where, upon the soft moss, he 
cast himself. 

The night was over, and he lived. 

by Google 

Original from 


A New Carlyle Discovery. 


AiVitk a Commentary ty Reginald Blunt* 

recurrent topics of ill- 
nesses and thtir reme- 
dies, and by (apparently) 
perpetual household 
worries ; and we need 
hardly be surprised to 
find that both these 
subjects bulk largely in 
any further correspond- 
ence of hers which may 
come to light. 

It is so, yet in a 
happier sense than 
usual, with these letters 
which follow. 

The illnesses ; as we 
can now see, in the 
quiet perspective of 
collective evidence, and 
with the help of Sir 
James Crichton- 
Browne's admirable in- 
troduction to the E * New 
Letters and Memorials," 
were those of an in- 
tensely nervous tempera- 
ment, educated under 
too strenuous condi lions, 
high - strung and quick 

Vol. *lix —3ft, 

OVERS of Mrs. Carlyle— 
among whom I rank myself 
in the str attest sect — must 
often have heaved an unavail- 
ing sigh that her always de- 
lightful letters should be so 
largely obsessed by the ever- 

both in sensation and in reaction, u the flame 
of life in her brilliant yet ever flickering and 

Her fits of despondency, of morbid de- 
pression, of groundless jealousy, of exhausting 
insomnia ; the incessant attacks of influenza, 
the sick-headaches, even the threatened 
mental disorder and 
suicidal promptings— all 
these are to be traced 
back to j and based upon, 
her highly neurotic 
nature. This is not, of 
course, in any sense to 
say that these things 
were not, for ker i over- 
whelmingly real and 
terrible, or that she 
would have felt in any 
way the better for being 
informed that her 
physical troubles were 
the outcome of ''cerebral 
neurasthenia/' and her 
spiritual malaise was a 
11 climacteric m e I a n- 
cholia" [ 

But it does help us, as 
we read, to discount and 
appraise more nearly at 
their proper value many 
things in her letters 
which otherwise sound 
harsh, despairing, extru- 

THJS PORTRAIT OF MRS, CARLY1.R , "WAS; n al taii / t 

TAKEN RV MR. TATT ABrtUT THK TIMS ' '^'E '& " ** QT Unfair; 
Copyright* 1915, by Reginald Blunt. 




exaggerated descriptions, unreasoning cyni- 
cisms, disordered fancies, querulous reproaches. 

These things were not, any of them, part 
of her real, her true self. They were symp- 
toms of a malady which attacked, and even 
threatened to overwhelm, her, but which, 
eventually, she emerged from victoriously. 
She was conscious that the being which, in 
her dark hours, possessed her was alien to 
her natural self, a thing, indeed, of falsehood. 
"It is not," she wrote, " a natural vice of 
mine, that sort of egotistic babblement that 
has been fastened in me by the patience and 
sympathy shown me in my late long ill— 
nesses." And again : " Not only do I forget 
utterly particulars of quite recent date, but 
I remember particulars of no date at all ! 
That is to say, imagine to remember minutely 
things that never happened — never were. 
Since I became aware of this freak of memory 
in me I have felt a toleration which I never 
felt before for — * white liars/ " 

" I might have known," she wrote, rue- 
fully, " by myself, that the excitability of 
nerves which makes amusing letters is very 
compatible with serious ailment." And, 
again : " Your journal, all about feelings, 
aggravates whatever is factitious and morbid 
in you ; that I have made experience of." 

In a letter written to her husband from 
Scotland in 1857, she says, after telling him 
about herself : — 

" But * oh, my ! ' what a shame, when you 
are left alone there, with plenty of smoke of 
your own to consume, to be puffing out mine 
on you from this distance ! It is certainly 
a questionable privilege one's best friend 
enjoys, that of having all one's darkness 
rayed out on him. If I were writing to — 
who shall I say ? — Mr. Barlow, now, I should 
fill my paper with ' wits ' and elegant quota- 
tions and diverting anecdotes ; should write 
a letter that would procure me laudation 
sky-high on my ' charming unflagging spirits ' 
and my * extraordinary freshness of mind and 
feelings ' ; but to you I cannot for my life be 
anything but a bore." 

It was, I think, John Sterling's brother who 
once told Mrs. Carlyle that " she would be 
much more aimable if she weren't so damnably 
clever " ; but the conception of her as " a 
bore " is in no circumstances possible. 

The allusion to her husband as " one's 
best friend" is a true, delightful touch. For 
the essential fact emerges, to be remembered 
always, that behind and beneath and beyond 
all these mephitic vapours and vapourings 
there remained, to the very end, the true 
Jane Welsh Carlyle, brilliant in wit, generous 

in judgment, sensitively tender in her affec- 
tion for all living things, proud of her home 
and its cares ; above all, and through all, 
attached to and beloved by her husband with 
a pride, a solicitude, and devotion which was 
clouded, at times, by illness or by misunder- 
standings, but which nothing could, or ever 
did, permanently quench. 

Concerning the servant and household 
worries, the cares of bread which furnish so 
prolific a topic in the letters, it has to be 
remembered that Mrs. Carlyle's highly nervous 
condition on the one hand exaggerated the 
importance of much that was really insig- 
nificant, and on the other tended, no doubt, 
to make her far too observant and expectant 
a house- wife. 

Her mental equilibrium was much too 
sensitive and capricious to allow of her being 
what is generally understood by " a good 
mistress." She tried to, but could not, culti- 
vate the blind eye for things below-stairs ; 
her preferences and dislikes were swiftly and 
intensely engaged ; and, as a result, there 
was no impartiality of domestic governance, 
but she was always doing her servants a great 
deal more, or a little less, than justice. 

Yet her intense interest in the human side 
of her servants, the warm affection which 
welled up instantly at the touch of sympathy 
and fellowship, however clumsy and simple, 
is always a charming feature of what she 
wrote about them to her friends ; and no- 
where, surely, has this responsive affection 
been more delightfully evinced than in these 
letters which follow, to her little Charlotte. 

They were carefully and affectionately 
treasured by their recipient to the end of her . 
life — about ten years ago ; and were eventu- 
ally brought to me by her family, with a view- 
to their possible publication and disposal. 

Charlotte Southam (nie Watson) entered 
Mrs. Carlyle's service at Cheyne Row in 
June, 1858. 

Her parents had died in her childhood, and 
she had been adopted by her uncle and aunt, 
Mr. and Mrs. Southam, whose name she took 
and with whom she had lived at one of the 
little houses in Lawrence Street, just west of 
Cheyne Row. 

Mrs. Carlyle, having made some not very 
encouraging experiments with servants who 
were supposed to be fully trained in their 
domestic duties, had somewhat heroically 
decided that she would take a young girl 
straight from home, and train her as maid 
herself. Charlotte was one of two Chelsea 
girls sent her by an acquaintance to whom 
she applied. Mi's. Carlyle asked Charlotte if 




£#?£ /tos fa+i-ryi+o+4 r ^^ y 


herself into Norfolk. But I think I will leave, by 
myself, on the Saturday, which will make even 
time — and my luggage will be so much safer with 
no footmen to take charge of it ! 

I will tell Mr. Larkin to give you six more 
shillings next Monday or Tuesday. 

I continue much better in health — sleep more 
like a Christian — eat regularly two dinners, one 
at half past one, and the other at eight ! Cough 
very little, and am up to whatever is proposed. 
But my bonnet ribbons are getting frightfully 
dirty and my white shawl ditto ! I had to buy 
goloshes at Portsmouth having forgot my own — 
All good be with you little woman. 
Yours kindly, 


Bay House— Tuesday [August, 1858]. 

Dear Charlotte, 

(This pen will hardly mark, but it must do, 
there is no other.) I told you in my last letter 
that I should be home next Saturday ; and I sent 
you a message yesterday, thro' Mr. Larkin, to Ike 
same effect. As I like keeping my word, even in 
matters of no moment ; I should not have altered 
my day for my own pleasure ; but it would be 
both ungrateful and impolite if I did not alter it 
for Miss Baring's ; she wishing and pressing me 
to stay over Sunday — that we may all leave here 
the same day — viz. on Monday (23d). 

After all it will be better so ! What could I do 
with the Sunday at home if I had it? — since 

improved tho* I am in strength and courage I 
have not enough of either, yet, to go to Church ! 
And I am too good a Presbyterian (if you have 
the slightest conception what that is !) to pursue 
either business or amusement on Sundays ! So 
you are not to expect me till Monday — in time 
for dinner — about three o'clock you can have it 
ready. I shall probably arrive soon after two. 
That you mayn't be troubling your youthful brain 
with uncertainties as to what I would like ; I will 
order the dinner now, a week before hand ! ! 
"Mrs. Newnham's dish (the minced mutton 
browned before the fire) and a ground-rice pud- 
ding." And you must please to give me encugh ! ! 
I should like, you see, to be let down soft ; for all 
the time I have been here I have eaten two con- 
siderable dinners a-day ! 

I hear from Mrs. Huxham this morning that 
" the bird " is not only " still living " but " picking 
up" — ** washes and pecks himself" — for which 
the Heavens be duly praised ! and Mrs. Huxham's 
u bosom"! 

I told Mr. Larkin I should like that he came to 
tea on Saturday evening. I must now put him off 
till Monday evening. 

You can take the inclosed down to the Bridge 
Pier in time for him tomorrow morning— as Mr. 
Carlyle used to leave his notes with the man at 
that Pier — love to Nero. 

Yours truly, 

Mrs. Carlyle returned to Chelsea from Bay 
House on August 24th for jsl day or two, and 
then went north to pay a visit to her friend, 

tue+t~ Turn*' - &>?*£ /2 ^y *«b^ 

*£ Mfrc — y £+*y£ ***? ?.?* ** 

Slj-4*C/** *^ 


3 86 


Mrs, Pringle, who had a 
large, comfortable house 
at Lann Hall, near 
Thornhillj in Dumfries- 
shire ; Charlotte and 
Nero, " who would come 
and see me off/' George 
Cooke j and Mr, Lark in, 
M with a freshly-gathered 
bouquet/' all going to 
the station to help her 
departure ; and from 
thence she addressed the 
next letter to her small 
maid at Chelsea, 

C a r 1 y I e t meanwhile, 
had gone from Edinburgh 
to Hamburg, and thence 
to Carzitz, Berlin, Brieg, 
Breslau, Prag, and Dres- 
den, visiting the "Fried- 
rich " battlefields prepa- 
ratory to writing his 
description of them in 
the great History, 

The next letter is from 
Lann Hall, 

Lann Hall, Tynron, 
Friday [September 3 f 

Dear Charlotte, — 1 sent 
you, on my arrival here a 
few line*, inclosed to our 
Postman (Mr. Bullock) 
about a little gold ring, I 
hoped you might find for 
me on' my basin-stand or 
somewhere* And 1 hoped 
lo have heard from you, yes or no, before this. 

The ring i* of little value in itself, but / valued 
it highly for the take of the person who gave it 
me. And 1 should be rejoiced to hear that it 
was found. 

It is not about that however that I write 
to-day ; but to tell you that 1 don't expect Mr. 
Carlyle will stay long in Germany, and that you 
must get on with your house-sorting — that you may 
not i hare the fate of the seven foolish virgins in 
the Scripture who were found with their lamps 
un trimmed* 

It will be a great shame to you, if you have 
not the house perfectly sorted when we return 
-having for so long had no family to attend to 
but Nero — In particular, I wish you would give 
the drawing room grate not one but several good 
scourings — I did not at all admire the state in 
which you were letting it lie over till wanted I 

If the people at Waterloo House have not 
sent home the bed-tick ; you had better ask Mrs. 
Gilchrist (if she have returned) or Mrs. Royston 
to be so kind as to hasten them about it ; for it 
would be better to fill it in Mr, Carlyle's dressing 
room as you proposed — and at the same lime, 
Ais rooms ought not to be Left till the last 




I don't remember the name t but Waterloo 
House near Charing cr 0*1 is" direction enough. 

In the last tetter I had from Mr. Carlyle he 
said it was likely he would get thro* all he had to 
do in Germany in a couple of week* — ( don't 
know yet whether he will go straight to Chelsea 
or come back thro 1 Scotland and pick me up. 
But even if he do come this way he won't like 
putting off more time here. And if he go home 
by himself, / should put off no time in returning. 
So you see the need of letting no grass grow 
under your feet ! I think myself it will probably 
be three weeks before we return, but as it may 
be rather less you must be prepared for that. 

When you have put down the carpet in the 
drawing room don't bring out any china or little 
things — Dr. Carlyle is dangerous for breaking 
when he has the run of the house. 

When you clean the furniture ask Mrs. 
Newnham to mix you some beeswax and soap, 
as j/ie knows how — and then use it very sparingly 
indeed, having first carefully washed the fur- 
niture with soap and warmish water — you 
should rub up the four posted beds as well as the 
dining room chairs &c. — 

If you saw ho w a JI ilu: things do shine in this 
house I and vol I sboiikj *n hy fchs look of her 







face, that the housemaid here 11 neither so active 
nor ia clever a girl as you are 1 and [the is but 
some two or at most three years older. But the 
Lady is very particular and will have things right 
about her; and I observe that those who demand 
most of their fellow creatures always get best 
attended to 1 which does not say much for 
human generosity, 

Yesterday 1 dined at a mere farm-house ; and 
of all the well-cooked dinners 1 ever sat down to t 
it was the foremost ! Such puddings and pastry 
it would have defied Lord Ashburton's gentle- 
man -french cook, at three hundred a year, to 
make the like of t— It was all done by a country 
gir] with the assistance of her mistress ! " Ladie* " 
here are not ashamed to be useful as well as 
ornamental — and a great blessing that is to their 
Husbands and visitors, 

1 felt quite envious yesterday of that Lady's 
talent for housekeeping — and would have liked 
to put myself apprentice to her. It £■ Honour- 
able to any woman to be able to produce as 
much comfort and elegance on some eight 
hundred a year as most people cannot produce 
On eight thousand. We must improve, you and I, 
Yours truly, 


After staying nearly 
three weeks with Mrs. 
Pringle at Lann Hal], Mrs, 
Carl vie moved on about 
the middle of September 
to spend a few days with 
Dr. and Mrs. Russell at 
Thornhill ; and here she 
heard from her husband 
of his probable return 
from Germany to Chelsea 
direct, instead of to Scot- 
land, as she had imagined. 
The next letter written 
from Thornhill to Char- 
lotte reveals her anxiety 
about Carlyle's home- 
coming in her absence. 
To him she wrote from 
Thornhill: "Oh, my 
dear ! I hope that Nero 
will know you and wel- 
come you in his choicest 
mood ; and I hope that 
Charlotte will 'not fall 
but rise with the emer- 
gency* (as Miss Anderson 
says she does),,,. 
Meanwhile whatever are 
you to do about finding 
things ? Charlotte is rather 
good at finding / Take her 
up gently t tell her what you 
want in plain English, and 
I have no doubt you will 
find her very docile and 
' quick at the uptake J3 * 

Thornhill, Dumfries 

Thursday [Sep, 16, 1858], 

Dear Charlotte, 

Your letter bit me today in the most beau- 
tiful manner just in the transit from the Place 
where I have been these three weeks, to this Place 
where I shall stay some days at Least. I have only, 
a few minutes as usual for writing in ; but if I 
wait till tomorrow the Sunday intervenes and you 
will not be able lo get any letter till Monday, 

The winter stock of coals had best not he 
ordered till I return and can see about the price 
&c, but if you are in danger of running out 
altogether, you must order a ton from Aldin to 
be brought in on Monday morning — that the oil 
cloth may be put down clean in time for Mr. 
Carlyle, I have no further news from him ; in- 
deed ever since he went abroad, my knowledge 
of his movements has been gained chiefly from 
the newspapers— he has been too hurried and 
flurried for writing — 

If he keep to the intentions he expressed in his 
last letter to me he will be home to you next 
Monday — that is the 20th, but i hope you will 


■ ll, 19*. 



receive tome direct instructions from himself, 
thro' Dr. Carlyle. 

I should like that he had stayed away a week 
or two longer that I might have been at home to 
receive him ; but not expecting him to toon, I 
have ttaid all my time at one place and have 
several friends and relations to visit still before I 
leave this country, and it would be a pity to have 
incurred so much expence of travelling for lest 
than a month't stay. Besides hurry-scurrying 
back in time for Arm would probably undo any 
good I have got by coming. So I must just trust 
to your making him comfortable for a week or 
so, and the week after next I will return ; and 
relieve you of your responsibility at least. 

You know his ways and what he needs pretty 
well by this time. Trouble him with as few 
questions as possible. You can ask him whether 
he will take tea or coffee to breakfast? and 
whether he would like broth or a pudding to 
dinner ? you must always give him one or other 
with his meat, and either an egg to breakfast or a 
slice of bacon. 

I think you can now cook most of the things he 
takes oftenest, boiled fowl, mutton broth, chops 
and bread and ground rice puddings. If you 
take pains to please him I have no doubt you wilL 
And if he look fussed and cross, never mind, so 
long as you are doing your best ; travelling 
always puts him in a fever, and nobody can look 
and speak amiably with sick nerves. I myself 
know and so do you, a young lady called Charlotte 
Southam who whenever she is ick and has a 
headache, looks exactly as if she were ever so 
sulky ! and I daresay, she isn't sulky tho* looking 
it! any more than Mr. Carlyle is ** cross" tho' 
looking it to perfection. 

If you can catch Mr. Edwards the gardner it 
would be well to have the garden done up. Only 
tell him to be careful of all my little pet plants. 

You need not order in anything till Mr. C 
arrive — or till he tell you he is positively coming 
— then get what is needed at your own discretion, 
without troubling him. 

Heaven help you and him well thro 9 it ! 

Take care your kitchen is in order — when he 
goes to light his pipe — he will see. 

Yours truly, 


Mrs. Carlyle herself got back to Cheyne 
Row a few days later, and found all in good 
order at Chelsea. " My house was all right ; 
indeed, I never found it as thoroughly cleaned, 
or the general aspect of things as satisfactory. 
She is a perfect jewel, that young girl ; 
besides all her natural work, she had crocheted 
out of her own head a large cover for the 
drawing room sofa ! .- . . I found myself the 
enviable mistress of a kitten . . . black as 
soot ! Charlotte had taken the opportunity 
of my absence to discover ' there were mice 
in the house ' and bring home a new pet for 
herself ! The dog and it are dear friends for 
a wonder."* 

To Mrs. Russell also she wrote : " I find 
all extremely right here. A perfectly cleaned 

♦ "L. & M./'ii, 382. 

house and a little maid radiant with l virtue 
its own reward.' Charlotte said yesterday, 
* I think Scotland must be such a fresh airy 
place ! I should like to go there ! You did 
smell so beautiful when you came in at 
the door last night ! ' She is quite a jewel 
of a servant. Far more like an adopted 
child than a London maid of all work. And, flf 
upon my word and honour, her bread is a ™ 
deuced deal better than that loaf of Mrs. 

Students of Mrs. Carlyle will probably feel 
some little trepidation, on reading these high 
encomia, for poor little Charlotte's future 
history. Such praises seem altogether too 
good to last. And indeed Mrs. Carlyle herself 
had similar forebodings, for we find in a letter 
to Mrs. Russell, written early in the following 
year (1859), " My little Charlotte continues 
to behave like the good girl in the fairy tale. 
The only drawback to my satisfaction with 
her is that it seems too great to last — in a 
world of imperfections ! "f 

Yet it did last, most persistently, and in 
spite of recurrent illnesses and sleeplessness, 
yet a while. 

In the spring there was a brief visit to the 
Ashburtons' farm at Addiscombe, " beauti- 
fullest cottage in the world," as Carlyle de- 
scribed it, whence the next letter to Charlotte 
is directed, warning her of their home- 
coming : — 

Addiscombe Farm, Croydon, 
Saturday. [Spring of 1859 ?] 

I hope, Charlotte, you are being good and 
busy ! It will disappoint me much if either plants 
or birds or dog have any ill to say of you on my 
return 1 or if I see no evidence in the grates &c, 
that you have been working (in moderation) tho 9 
I was not there to bid you. Do you know the 
Proverb ? " The Devil is always at the elbow 
of an idle Body"! Remember that; little 
Woman ! and be sure that of all idle Bodies, it is 
the idle girl that the Devil makes most haste to, 
and brings to worst harm ! 

We keep to our intention of being home on 
Monday. I cannot fix the precise hour ; but I 
shall take care to be in time for ordering Mr. C's 
dinner ; and you may light the Drawing room fire 
by ten or so, to have the room well aired. Mrs. 
Gilchrist said she would give me a loaf of bread 
when we came that there might be no bother of 
baking, the first day. 

Shakespear should be told beforehand, that 
the usual quantity of milk will be required on 
Monday, in case, being taken unprepared, he 
have to fall back on the pump ! The beet cream 
that can be got out of Mr. Wright's cows will 
find little enough favour with Mr. C, after the 
thick yellow coloured thing called cream of 
which he takes here, every day, enough to bathe 
a baby in ! 




. ; :. 

f t 





My love to Nero and tell him to Look out on 
Monday— and to be cure and have on a clean 

Your* truly, 


It was during this summer of 1859 that 
Carlyle, M after months of uselessness and 

susceptible of improvement, but that the 
' kindness of Scotch people ' fills her with 
wonder and delight. 

4£ Young men that don't so much as know 
her name, passing her on the road, say to her, 
£ Bonnie wee lassie ! ' And the farmer here 
gave her * a little sugar rabbit/ and said to 

Ho, 6* CHEYME BOW (Now No, 24}, 


wretchedness/* fighting his way desperately 
through the heartrending enterprise of 
u Frederick the Great/' determined to take 
the " tolerable upper floor " of the farm- 
house of Humble, close to Aberdour, in Fife ; 
and thither he went in June by steamer to 
Grant on, accompanied by " clever little 
Charlotte, my horse, and Nero/* 

Mrs, Carlyle followed them by rail to 
Haddington on June 24th, and went on to 
Humbie a few days later. The change was 
probably good for both of them, though 
neither was prepared altogether to admit it ; 
and Charlotte, at any rate, seems to have 
been well satisfied with the Scotland which 
she had so much desired to see. 

" Charlotte/* Mrs, Carlyle wrote from 
Humbie, E1 is the happiest of girls I not that 
she seems to have much sensibility for the 
£ beauties of Nature/ nor that her health was 

her, * Little girl, you are growing quite pretty 
since you came/ Did I ever hear of such 
land people? "* 

In August they moved on from Humbie 
Farm to Auchtertool House, near the cousins 
at the Manse, and here they stayed till the 
latter half of September, when Carlyle went 
to the Gill, and later to Scots brig, whilst his 
wife returned to Chelsea to make ready for 
his advent. 

Little Charlotte had preceded her by 
steamer from Grant on, in charge of Carlyle's 
horse Fritz. " Charlotte/' Mrs. Carlyle wrote 
to her husband, " was very frightened that 
the Prince's horse (which came on the same 
steamer) might have ' some bad complaint/ 
as the people said on board it was ill, and to 
see the Prince's groom giving our horse water 

hit ou voainar front „ , ~, P ~ ~~ 
iMfeltffiFMICHl&r M ' 



and corn out of the same dishes which the 
other horse had used, alarmed her so much 
that she went to Silvester's (where Fritz was 
stabled) after her arrival and begged him to 
' give the horse some physic in case of his 
catching anything ! ' " But Fritz was none 
the worse, and Silvester reported him " in 
capital condition, so fat and so spirity that 
he never " 

Mrs. Carlyle once more found " everything 
in the house perfectly safe ; no bugs, no moths, 
grates unrusted, much more care having been 
taken than when Ann was left in it." 

Mrs. Southam, Charlotte's " mother," had 
been left in charge, and " Charlotte is already 
the better for being back beside her — away 
from Thomson's and Muat's." Carlyle 
notes these as merely unknown names, but 
it looks as if the " bonnie wee lassie " had 
found admirers north of Tweed. Evidently 
she had greatly enjoyed her time in Scotland ; 
and Mrs. Carlyle, in a long letter to Mrs. 
Southam written from Humbie, and dealing 
with Cheyne Row domesticities, such as open- 
ing of windows, shaking of furs, etc., says : — 

" Charlotte is perfectly well and seems 
charmed w\th Scotland — as is not surprising ; 
everything being new to her, and very pleasant 
besides. We have now a donkey of our own, 
and Charlotte rode him to the village on her 
errands, with great delight — at first — but now 
she finds she ' can go much quicker on her 
own feet.' The donkey is a great godsend 
to me, however, who have no feet of my own 
with strength to carry me many yards. I 
asked her just now if she had any message to 
send ; she took ten minutes to think and 
then said, l Just to give my love to father and 
mother ; and I should like to hear from them/ 
We hear dreadful accounts of the heat in 
London and the smell of the river ! We are 
lucky to be here, I think, where it is quite cool 
and nothing smelling but roses." 

To Charlotte herself she writes, a week 
later : — 

" I was glad to hear from Mr. Larkin that 
you had had a pleasant voyage and were safe 
home with your quadrupeds. I keep to my 
intention of being home on Friday . . . keep 
a good fire in the parlour and my bedroom. 
Pray do attend to this ! It would be no 
saving of trouble to you to have me catch 
cold the first thing on arriving. . . . You 
need not prepare any dinner for me as I may 
prefer tea when I arrive and we are no longer 
five miles from butcher's meat. I hope after 
all your travels and ' sights ' you will settle 
down to your work and be a good girl." 

Mrs. Carlyle got back to Chelsea on Sep- 

tember 23rd, stopping a night at York en 
route, and plunged into household prepara- 
tions for her husband's return. He paid a 
short visit to Lady Stanley at Alderley Park, 
Congleton, on his way south, and came home 
to Chelsea at the beginning of October. It 
was the very night before his arrival that 
poor little Nero, out shopping with Charlotte, 
was run over by the furiously-driven butcher's 
cart, and " brought home in her arms all 
crumpled together like a crushed spider " ; 
ancT there is a pathetic description of the 
accident in Mrs. Carlyle's letter of October 
30th to Mrs. Russell.* " I dare not show all 
my grief," she writes. " Charlotte was so 
distressed, and really could not have helped 

It was during this autumn of 1859 that 
Carlyle received from Germany the Order of 
Knighthood of the White Falcon. " Char- 
lotte," his wife writes, " told our charwoman 
with great glee that the Master might call 
himself ' Sir Thomas, if he liked.' * My/ said 
the charwoman, * then the Mistress is Lady 
now ! ' * Yes/ said Charlotte, * but she says 
she won't go in for it. Such a shame ! ' " t 

And so, " in the valley of the shadow of 
Frederick the Great," and in the nursing of 
Nero, the little, ended the year 1859. 

At the New Year (i860), both Mr. and Mrs. 
Carlyle were glad to escape, if only for ten 
days, from the cold and gloom of London to 
Lord Ashburton's large, well- warmed Hamp- 
shire house, The Grange, where the second 
Lady Ashburton, who was to prove so staunch 
and warm a friend to them both, was enter- 
taining a large house-party; and the next 
two letters to Charlotte are dated from thence. 
It was quite a successful little visit, though 
curtailed by Carlyle's impatience to be back 
at his desk and his " monstrous " task. 

Charlotte, we note from the second letter, 
had evidently been given a companion at 
Cheyne Row during their absence. 

The Grange, Alresf ord, Hants, 
Tuesday [January 3rd, I860]. 

Dear little Woman, 

I haven't a moment's time to tell you about 
anything but the business on hand. 

I have gone and put a wrong key on my ring ! 
— have left the key of my writing desk behind and 
brought that of an old hat-box instead ! — There ! 
that is stupider than anything you ever did I — 
And I can't get my white gloves which are in the 
desk ! And must go down in bare hands — which 
is about as bad as going down with bare feet — 

Look in the little glass drawer and I think you 
will find little keys and make a parcel of them 
and send them by post tomorrow — it is a round 
key — for a little bramah lock. 

* " L. & NV^SI^I I Jn ? New " L. & M.," ii, aao. 




If you cannot find it — in the drawer where ihe 
pill* lie — then / don't know the least in the world 
where I put them — when 1 took them off the ring 
this morning -and you must ask Mrs, Gilchrist 
to huy me or must go and buy me yourself two 
pairs of white kid gloves of the size seven and 
three quarter* and send them by post. 

Oh dear what shall I do ? 

Yours affectionately, 


his headache very bad — and talked seriously 
of going home the very first day after we came 
and again he told Lady A. last night that he must 
go home on Saturday (tomorrow) but would 
leave me here. That I set my face against — he 
might go if he would, but if he went, 1 would 
certainly go too — and so, tho 1 very angry at what 
he calls my pen>ertity t he is meaning to try to stay 
a little longer, but 1 have small hope we shall 
make out the fortnight ! and shouldn't wonder 


The Grange, 

Friday [January 6, 1860], 

Dear Charlotte, 

Luckily I didn't give way to a too confi- 
dent gladness, when I felt little keys thro* the paper 
of your note ; or I should have been ready to 
dash my brains out against the wall, on inspecting 
them, and recognising one a* the key of an old 
padlock ! and the other as a key found on the 
streets ! the only thing I ever found to the best of 
my recollection, except once a solitary ha'penny 
in Cook's Grounds ! 

But never mind 1 I dare say I put the right key 
away in some place where you couldn't be 
expected to find it. And in the meantime the 
worst difficulties of my mistake are obviated for 
me by the help of friends. There was nothing in 
the desk absolutely indispensable for my comfort, 
except the white gloves and my sewing materials 
(needle - book reels of cotton &c) — my pearl 
necklace and bracelets are in the locked desk ; 
but one can exist without these ! — and, but for 
my absurd pride, I needn't have been put about 
at all — having only to state my difficulties to Miss 
Emily Raring* or to Lady Ash burton, and immedi- 
ately Lady** Maids were despatched to my room 
with more white gloves, and reek, and needles, 
than I should use in a year 1 1 Writing paper and 
envelopes are always at the command of the 
visitor* to any extent — so it i* "all right" in the 
matter of the missing key. But it is anything but 
alt right in the matter of Mr, Carlyle. He has 

(To be 

if he went tomorrow after all ! However you 
don't need to make any preparations for our 
arrival unless you have had it officially intimated 
to you -on ly t — take care to be in the way, that 
if he do start off ail on a sudden, he mayn't be 
put in a rage at the end of hi* journey by finding 
nobody to get him some dinner, or what he 

As for the cleaning — don't have more than one 
thing in hands at a time — and I hen you can't be 
found in any irremediable muddle come when 
we may \ 

I have been very well since I came here — and 
walk out every day — the House is full of com- 
pany as usual — and they are people [ like, most 
of them. The baby is a perfect Darling — but 
has her own apartments in a distant part of the 
House — so one has to make a long solemn 
journey to get a kiss of her 1 

Lady A, it kindnesses self ! — really twenty 
angels melted into one couldn't make up a kinder 
more loveable creature, 

1 hope you are both good girls, and that 1 shall 
find you well and well doing when I come home. 

Poor old Sambo the first Lady's pet dog is 
grown so feeble and spiritless I he reminds me 
so of little Nero I tho 1 a big dog— and when he 
sets up long wailing howls, I fancy he is wailing 
for his old mistress — and can hardly keep from 
bursting out crying — what nontense 1 
Kindly yours and Sarahs, 


, , > v Original from 


1 QardeD 

From the French of Frederic Boutet 

Illustrated bjrlredenck Gardener 

HE unknown caller seated 
himself on the chair which 
M. Aubergeois offered him. 

" Excuse me, sir/' he said, 
" for having insisted on seeing 
you, and for thus intruding 
without even giving my name. 
I have important reasons for acting in this 
way. Indeed, I should not have dared to 
take such a liberty with one of a less lofty 
intellect, or of a less firmly established 
reputation and stainless honour than your- 

M. Aubergeois was a big man of fifty, 
wealthy and vain, who, possessing in a western 
country town a beautiful house surrounded 
by a large garden, considered himself a person 
of distinction. The mysterious preamble of 
his visitor, a well-groomed young man of 
about thirty, flattered him, even while he felt 
disposed to resent the liberty. He made no 
reply, but fanned himself majestically with 
his handkerchief, for it was summer, and the 
weather was very warm. 

" I will now explain my errand/ ' continued 
the stranger. " There is in your magnificent 
garden a structure, originally a pigeon-house, 
the lower part of which is now used as a rabbit- 
hutch and the upper part as a hayloft. 

One of your old gardeners has supplied me 
with these details. In the loft, under the 
roof, are two dormer windows, which overlook 
your garden, and in front there is a large 
aperture which commands a view of the garden 
next door. Now, sir, I have come to beg 
this favour — a strange one, I confess, but one 
of vital importance to me — that you will 
permit me to-night, and on the two following 
nights if necessary, to station myself at this 
window, for the purpose of watching the 
neighbouring garden.' ' 

" You mean the pirate's garden ? " said 
M. Aubergeois. 

" Yes, sir. I believe that it is so called. 
I venture to hepe that you will not refuse 
my somewhat unusual request. As I have 
already stated, I have most urgent reasons for 
making it — reasons, however, which I may 
on no account disclose. Therefore, should you 
be willing to grant me this favour, let me beg a 
further one — that you will ask no questions." 

M. Aubergeois kept silence for a moment. 
The strange request of this stranger seemed 
to him alarmingly uncanny. At the same 
time, he felt deeply interested. The house 
next to his own, now empty, had formerly 
been occupied by a mysterious man who lived 
in stricl; seclusion, hi«< only cor/if^anion being 



f the old negro who waited on him and who never 
talked to anyone but his master. 

Strange stories had been told concerning 
this recluse. People called him the " pirate." 
It was said that in the course of his lawless 
expeditions and voyages to distant lands he 
had accumulated a vast store of ill-gotten 
gains, and that he spent his nights in trying 
to dull the pangs of remorse by counting up 
his money. 

The " pirate " had now been dead for three 
years. The negro had disappeared. The 
house was offered for sale, but no one seemed 
inclined to purchase it. 

M. Aubergeois, recalling these details, 
scented some enthralling mystery. The dread 
of compromising himself, and the inclination 
to refuse an indiscreet request, contended 
with his devouring curiosity. The latter 

" Sir," he said, pompously, " your words 
sound to me like those of an honest man " 

" Pray believe that, sir," interrupted the 
other, eagerly ; " an honest man in imminent 

danger of falling a vict But, no — I am 

pledged to silence." 

" Well," said M. Aubergeois, " I will grant 
the permission you desire upon one condition, 
necessary for the satisfaction of my own con- 
science. I must watch with you during these 
three nights. What you observe I must observe 
also ; I must be an eye-witness of your pro- 
ceedings. You will understand that, since 
you choose to make such a mystery of the 
'affair, it is my duty to assure myself that 
there is no harmful intention in all this." 

The stranger made a quick gesture of 
vexation, which he instantly repressed. 

" You are right, sir," he said. " This 

prudence is worthy of your high character. 

il, too, desire that you should be a witness 

to the innocence of my motives. I will be 

here to-night about eleven o'clock." 

j By half-past eleven that night the two men 

had begun their vigil in the loft, where at this 

! time there was very little hay. 

M. Aubergeois had himself opened the door 
to his mysterious visitor, and led him across 
the fair garden, delicious in its coolness and 
fragrance. But the younger man was too 
preoccupied, and the elder too intensely 
curious, to take notice of the charming, 
dream-like effects of the summer night. They 
had mounted to the pigeon-house loft by a 
ladder, and, not without difficulty, had opened 
the worm-eaten shutter. 

In the uncertain light of a half-moon, and 

* between the leafy branches of the trees, they 

could see the " pirate's " garden, wild, 

deserted, neglected, overrun with straggling 
grass and weeds. 

In the centre stood the half-filled basin of 
a fountain. Beyond that was a sundial, and 
facing the watchers, near the enclosing wall, 
a well. By leaning out of their window they 
could see to the right the wall which 
separated the garden from the public road, 
and on the left the long, low-roofed, pic- 
turesque house of the " pirate," dropping 
into ruins beneath the encroaching ivy. 

They waited in silence. The clock in a 
steeple near by struck midnight, then one, 
then two. Nothing happened. M. Auber- 
geois fell asleep standing. At length came 

" Sir," said the stranger, calmly, " be good 
enough to accept my apologies and thanks. 
We shall meet again to-night." 

" To-night," growled M. Aubergeois, in 
a very bad temper. 

Having seen the other off the premises, he 
went straight to bed. 

The following night the vigil in the pigeon- 
house was resumed. But this time the two 
men had watched scarcely an hour when, 
just after twelve o'clock, the silence of the 
night — so noticeable in the country — was 
broken by a rasping sound. It was the sound 
of a key in a lock. The gate of the " pirate's " 
garden opened and a man stole in. 

" It is he ! " whispered the young man in 
the pigeon-house, excitedly. " Let us draw 
back out of sight." 

The watchers withdrew their heads into 
the shadow cast by the thick foliage sur- 
rounding the window. The man in the garden 
below advanced cautiously. He carried a 
short spade. This he placed against the sun- 
dial. He took from his pocket a huge sheet 
of paper, which he spread out and examined 
by the light of a small electric lamp. Then 
he put back the paper, turned off his light, 
and placed the lamp also in his pocket. 
Lighted now only by the moon, the intruder 
approached the house. Turning his back 
upon the steps, and starting from the foot 
of the flight, he took twelve carefully- 
measured footsteps in the direction of the 
sundial. At the twelfth he stopped and 
drove a little stake into the earth. 

" That's it, that's it ! The rascal ! He has 
discovered the plan ! " 

The stranger in the pigeon-house, in his 
apparently uncontrollable agitation, seized 
M. Aubergeois by the arm. 

" Hush, hush ! He will hear you," whispered 
the other, himself bubbling over with excite- 








But the man in the garden seemed too 
much engrossed in his occupation to heed 
anything eke. He now went towards the 
wall facing the pigeon-house. With his back 
to the well, he took ten carefully-counted 
steps in the direction of the central basin 
and stuck another stake into the ground. 
Then he stretched a tape from one stake to 
the other, and at a third of its length 
marked the spot with a little bit of wood. 
This was just at the foot of a great chestnut 
tree. The man now took his spade, removed 
with care a large patch of turf, and began 
to dig vigorously. The stranger in the 
pigeon-house watched him with breathless 

After digging for an hour, the man in the 
garden, leaving the hole which he had made, 
mopped his perspiring forehead and looked 
around him. He seemed disappointed. Having 
re-lit his electric lamp, he again consulted his 
plan. Again he paced and measured, and 
arrived again at the same spot, where, 
apparently with fresh courage, he again 
laboured diligently at his hole. 

Suddenly he uttered a stifled cry. He had 
heard the ring of metal beneath his spade. 
With feverish eagerness he dug on for a few 
moments, but presently flung down his tool 
and began to claw away the earth with his 
hands. Then the watchers saw him stoop, 
holding his lamp low down, that he might see 
to the bottom of the cavity. Evidently the 
sight was a highly satisfactory one, for the 
man sprang up with a howl of joy and danced 
around the hole like a maniac. 

" He has found it, he has found it ! The 
thief ! He is robbing me, ruining me ! But 
I will be even with him yet ! " 

The companion of M. Aubergeois, as he 
gasped out these words, seemed as demented, 
though in a different way, as the man in the 
garden. But suddenly the latter, in his 
gambols, made a false step. He stumbled 
and fell heavily, with one foot in the hole 
which he had dug. He must have been 
badly hurt, for he gave a smothered groan, 
dragged himself up painfully, and sat down 
on the ground, nursing his right ankle, and 
swearing under his breath. 

After some minutes he attempted to stand 
on his feet, but nearly fell again. With great 
difficulty he managed to pick up his spade ; 
then he filled up the hole, without removing 
anything which he might have found there. 
He worked slowly and very painfully, pausing 
many times to rest, with many a low moan 
and groan. When the cavity was almost 
filled the man replaced the turf, scattered the 

loose earth which remained, and by strewing 
the ground with dead leaves and sticks 
obliterated all trace of his operations. 

Limping and stooping, and helping himself 
along by holding on to the trunks of the 
trees, the suffering man reached the well, 
into which he dropped his spade. Finally he 
quitted the garden by the gate opening on to 
the road, and disappeared as stealthily as 
he had come. 

" You have prevented the perpetration of 
a great injustice/' said the young stranger. 
" Now I know all, and there will be no need 
to watch another night. The accident which 
has interrupted this wicked attempt gives me 
time to defeat his criminal designs. You 
have earned my eternal thanks, and I trust 
shortly to have an opportunity of proving 
my gratitude." 

After making this speech, the stranger 
politely took his leave. 

That night — or rather morning — M. Auber- 
geois did not go to bed. After the stranger's 
departure he remained for an hour sitting in 
his garden. His body was inert, his mind 
extraordinarily active. He sat there calcu- 
lating, planning, devising. At the end of the 
hour he rose, fetched a hammer and a stout 
nail ; then, in the soft darkness that precedes 
the dawn, passed noiselessly into the road. 
He went straight to the gate of the " pirate's " 
garden, and there, with his hammer — which 
he wrapped in his handkerchief in order 
to deaden the sound of the blows — he drove 
the nail into the ancient lock. Certain that 
no one could now enter the gate, he returned 
to the house. 

The same morning, before noon, he had an 
interview with his lawyer. 

" The pirate's house ? " said that indi- 
vidual. " Oh, yes. The sale of it is in my 
hands. It belongs, you know, to the old 
man's two nephews." 

" He must have left them a considerable 
fortune," remarked M. Aubergeois, in a care- 
less, off-hand tone. 

" By no means. Everybody thought that 
they would inherit an enormous sum, and 
everybody was very much mistaken. There 
was nothing. Well, barely five thousand 
francs. The nephews were furious. Each 
accused the other of having defrauded him. 
Still keeping up the quarrel, they have 
returned to Paris." 

" Ah ! I fancy I saw them when they were 
here. Fair, are they not ? " 

" No, very dark. The elder has a monocle 
and a heavy moustache." 

" My visitor/' said Aubergeois to himself. 







" The younger is a bigger, with a full 
beard. ,, 

" The man of the garden — I am sure of 
it," thought Aubergeois. 

" This younger one/' continued the lawyer, 
" crrrc to see me three days ago. He asked 
fur the key of the garden gate, as he desired 
to visit the house, and this very morning he 
came here again, as soon as the office was 
cpcned. He was just leaving by the ten o'clock 
Lain. The poor fellow had sprained his foot 
so severely that he could not walk, and 
I had to go downstairs and get into his 
carriage to talk with him. Against my 
advice, he insists that the price of the house 
shall be raised. It is sheer folly. Even at 
the lower price there was small chance of 
finding a purchaser. It will be quite im- 
possible to sell it now." 

" But why impossible ? It is a pretty house, 
and the garden would suit me perfectly as 
an extension of my own. I should rather like 
to buy it." 

In spite of himself, M. Aubergeois could not 
help reddening a little as he spoke these words. 
The whole thing appeared to him as clear as 
a mountain stream. His covetous soul was 
puffed up with a wild hope. 

" Upon my word, M. Aubergeois," ex- 
claimed the lawyer, in some surprise, " if 
you really wish to buy this property, I shall 
have great pleasure in selling it to you. The 
house, as you say, is a pretty one, though the 

price That was originally ten thousand, 

but now, since this morning, I am forbidden to 
let the place go for less than thirty thousand 
M. Aubergeois started. 
" Thirty thousand ! " 
11 Yesu It is a stiff price. But perhaps, 

in talking things over " 

" Oh, well " — M* Aubergeois had recovered 
his equanimity — " property has gone up 
lately, we know. And then — well, it's a 
whim of mine. If you can sell the house, 
I will take it." 

The lawyer seemed dumbfounded for a 
moment. Then he said : — 

" M. Aubergeois, I have the necessary 
powers, and we can arrange the matter as 
soon as you please," 
When M. Aubergeois actually held in his 

hand, together with the key which his own 
act had rendered useless, the document which 
declared him proprietor of the house and 
garden, " and of all things contained therein " 
— he had insisted on the insertion of this 
clause — he felt a thrill of indescribable joy. 
Impatiently he awaited the coming of night, 
for he considered secrecy necessary for his 

About one o'clock in the morning he went 
down into his garden. Bearing a spade 
strapped upon his back, and with the aid 
of a ladder, he got over the wall which 
separated him from his newly-acquired pro- 
. perty. In that wild waste of a garden, at the 
foot of the large" chestnut tree, he had no 
difficulty in finding the spot where he had 
seen the eager searcher at work. Now he 
dug in his turn, with all his might. For 
more than an hour he toiled, energetically, 

At length the spade clashed against metal. 
With intense excitement, M. Aubergeois lifted 
out of the hole a firmly-closed box, resembling 
a biscuit-tin. This he seized, and bore away 
as swiftly as possible, over the wall, into his 
house, into his study. He was breathless 
when he put down the precious thing. 

With bounding pulse, more agitated than 
ever before in the whole course of his existence, 
M. Aubergeois hastily severed the wire which 
was fastened around the box. He raised the 
lid, broke open the leaden wrapper in which 
was enclosed a tied-up packet, drew forth from 
the packet a tin case, and from the case a large 
sheet of parchment, rolled up, and covered 
with writing. 

M. Aubergeois unrolled the parchment. 
This is what he read : — 

by the Brothers Dupray, 
showing how to sell for thirty thousand francs 
an old house worth only ten thousand. 

" Take an Aubergeois, with an inclination 
to believe in hidden treasures, and also to 
steal them from their rightful owners " 

M. Aubergeois read no more. His face 
became livid, then violet, and he put his hand 
to his throat. He was seized with a rattling 
in the throat ; then he fell forward in a swoon, 
with his head on the " recipe." 

VoL xtix.— 88. 

by Google 

Original from 

Are W e Inheriting 
Beautiful Feet? 


THERE are 
few people 
who realize that 
feet are not all 
of one kind, and 
that there are 
types of feet just 
as there are types 
of faces. 

Amongst the 
various races of 
men three types 
of feet occur. 
These types are 
shown in the first 
illustration. The 
first foot has the 
great toe longest, 
the second foot 
has tire second 
toe longer than 
the great toe, 
whilst the third 
foot has the first 
two toes equal. 
If a line is drawn 
across the tips of 
the toes in the 
first drawing it is seen to be straight, hence this 
type of foot will be called the even-toed foot, 
and, as the outline round the toes of the second 
foot is curved, this foot will be known as the 
arch- toed foot. The third type of foot, with 
the two first toes of the same length , will be 
called the equal foot. 

Certain pure races have one type of toe 
which is characteristic of each race. Thus, 
the Zulus j the Basques, and probably most 
pure Celts have the even -toed foot, whilst the 
Papuans, the Boschrnen, and a number of 


African tribes, as well as both ancient and 
modern Egyptians, have the arch- toed foot. 
Many European nations, however, have' a 
mixture of the three types. But it is certain 
that amongst the English, and probably 
among Germans, French, and Greeks, the 
even-toed foot is the commonest. 

An examination of over three thousand 
English people shows that eighty-nine per 
cent, of the men and eight y-one per cent, of 
the women have the even-toed foot. A good 
example of this type of foot can be seen in 
the photograph of the foot of an Englishman 
(Fig. 2). The remaining eleven per cent, of men 
and nineteen per cent, of women have almost 
entirely feet of the arch- toed type. If, how- 
ever, we turn to the immature foot— that is, 
the foot of the unborn child and the child up 
to the age of one or one and a half years — we 

find a very differ- 
ent state of affairs, 
for the arch- toed 
foot is the com- 
monest. At that 
age, however ; 
when the child 
begins to walk f the 
adult type gradu- 
ally displays itself, 
and in a short 
space of time a 
child's foot may 
pass from the arch 
to the even- toed 

We have little 
idea of what a 
foot is really 



majority have a confirmed prejudice that all 
modern feet, except those of children, are 
ugly y and that beautiful feet can be found 
only in Greek statuary. 
What is it that distinguishes the foot of a 



riu,tv. MantelL 

Greek statue ? What makes it beautiful ? A 

typical foot can be seen in the photographs of 

two statues which are in the British Museum 

—"Mercury" (Fig, 3) and "The Figure of a Girl 

Playing Astragale" (Fig, 4). These feet are 

comparatively slim, the toes are 

long and slender, especially the 

second toe, which protrudes 

beyond the first, or great T toe. 

From these examples it is dear 

that the beautiful sculptured 

foot of the Greeks was of the 

arch-toed type, and therefore 

has the curved outline which 

is such a contrast to the 

straight outline characteristic 

of most modern feet. Now, it 

is just this outline, combined 

with the slimness of the foot, 

which gives to the feet of 

Greek statues their supposed 

esthetic superiority. For 7 

according to some connoisseurs 

in art, the curved line has 

variation and movement in it, 

whilst the straight line must 

for ever be abhorred of artists. 

If we wish to study the 

modem representative of the 

sculptured arch -toed foot, it 

must be sought among women 

rather than among men. 

Having found it, it will be seen to differ con- 
siderably from the foot of Mercury, as the 
modern foot is less slim and the second toe 
protrudes a little way only beyond the great 
toe, A good example is seen in the photograph 
of the foot of an English girl (Fig, 5), and a 
somewhat ugly one in the flower-girl of Ford 
Madox Browns ''Work" (Fig, 6). 

The " Crucifixion/' by Bouguereau (Fig, 7), 
has a special interest as it contains both 
types of feet, Christ having the even- toed 
foot and both the Marys the arch -toed foot, 
In another picture by the same artist, 
M Innocence " (Fig. 8), it is now the woman, the 
mother, who has the same foot as the Christ, 
and the baby has, what most babies do have, 
an arch -toed foot. 

Any judgment respecting the beauty of 
the feet of a Greek statue is, however, preju- 
diced, for it is of a type with which we are all 
familiar, as it constantly occurs in Roman, 
Renaissance, and modern sculpture, and in 
nearly all pictures, whether classical or 
modern* Familiarity undoubtedly greatly 
influences our appreciation of beauty, as all 
who have noted and compared national facial 
types must have realized. 

The modern Greek foot is not like the 
characteristic foot of a Greek statue, for the 
former, as stated above, is usually of the 
even -toed type. What, then, were the feet 
of the ancient Greeks who posed as models 






for these statues ? About that we can only 
surmise. As will be seen on inquiry into 
the hereditary character! sties of feet, the 
even- toed foot tends, in ordinary circum- 
stances,, to replace the arch-toed foot, so that 

between the 
time of Pericles 
and the present 
time there may 
have occurred 
a great nume- 
rical change in 
the toe-type of 
the Greeks, the 
number of per- 
sons with the 
arch-toed foot 
being lessened 
and those with 
the even- toed 
foot increased. 
But, when the 
history of art- 
form is con- 
si d e r e d , we 
are inclined to 
think that the Greek sculptor was adopting 
a tradition j and not copying the feet he 
daily saw before him, much as the modem 
artist and the modern sculptor are doing 

Historically, Greek sculpture was an out- 
growth of Egyptian , hence the Greeks 
adopted the Egyptian conventions, especially 
in unimportant details. In Egyptian bas- 
reliefs and statues the second toe was 
longer than the first, although not to the 
extent found in the " best " period of 
Greek art. 

If the feet in such an Egypto-Greek bas- 
relief as the well-known " Throne of Venus " 
are studied the second toe is found to be 
slightly longer than the first, and the whole 
foot is not unlike the same type we find 

It is curious that art has led us astray as 
to the shape of the foot. Moreover, there is 
the convention of representing the feet so 
much smaller than they should be in propor- 
tion to the figure. One cannot but wonder 
if one of the results of this is that women, 
who in the everyday practical affairs of 
life are the more earnest seekers after 
beauty, should have attempted to make 
their feet appear artistically small, either 
by small boots, high heels, or a false form 
of shoe. 

The Romans, who borrowed their art from 
the Greeks, copied the arch- toed type of foot 

in all their statues, and from plastic art 
it was adopted by the primitive Italian 

The Tuscan school of painting, which was 
the greatest influence in Italian and ulti- 
mately in European art, again reproduced this 
type of foot, and it has thus passed down to 
us. The Tuscans, who are said to be derived 
from a race of Asia Minor, still inherit 
the arch- toed foot of their ancestors. If, 
therefore, artistically the Tuscan school 
tended to adopt this type of foot from 
classic works, its use would presumably he 
further impressed upon them by the actual 
feet of their models. On the other hand, we 
know now that the earlier painters had con- 
ventions about hair, hands, feet, and ears, 




, ftR5lTftifWlf!fllWT'f te 

Art GtUltrg, 


3 0t 

from which they 
did not easily de- 
part, and that in 
these matters they 
paid no attention to 
individual models. 
It is interesting 
and remarkable 
that with a very 
slight break there 
should have been 
continuity in the 
tradition of art as 
to the shape of 
leet from the time 
of the ancient 
Egyptians to the 
present timej a con- 
tinuity ind epende nt 
of race, of climate, 
and of time* 

The foot of the 
earlier Greek sta- 
tues was broad and 
the toes about the 
same length as in 
" The Foot of an 
Englishman/' But 
as art evolved and 
became more so- 
phisticated, there 
was a distinct ten- 
dency to elongate 
the foot and the 
toes, until toes 
such as those of 
"Mercury" are 
common. The arch- 
toed foot, when un- 
exaggerated, has a 
greater feeling of 
stolidity than the 
even - toed foot. 
Compare, for ex- 
ample, the mobility 
and sensitiveness 
of the feet of the 
Christ in u Cruci- 
fixion 1 ' with the feet 
$t the flower- 
ptl, or even with 
the feet of the Greek 
statue, "The Girl 
laying As tragale/ 1 


is interesting to 



Ci>j'iftiffht r reprudMced frvm a pfttfo. br Braun ** (2*. r Fart*, 

™d, therefore, that 

a number of people, having a sense of tradition of the correct foot in artistic repre- 

beauty and not over - prejudiced by the sentation was made by the P re- Raphael it es. 

Greek tradition, actually have a preference In their attempt to draw things as they are. 

for the even -toed 
foot* From this 
point of view 
beautiful feet may 
be found even to- 
day in Western 

The earlier 
masters no doubt 
perceived the 
artistic limitations 
of the arch - toed 
foot, and therefore 
exaggerated its 
slimness. This ten- 
dency is seen in 
the work of 
Cranach, one of the 
earliest students of 
the nude. His 
picture of "Adam 5 * 
(Fig, 9) is repro- 
duced to show the 
very long and 
almost finger - like 
toes which Cranach 
gave to his figures. 

Amongst modern 
painters no one has 
so out-Greeked the 
Greeks as Burne- 
Jones, In his 
"Sibylla Delphica" 
(Fig. 10) he has not 
only produced a 
classic second toe, 
but he has in his 
enthusiasm elon- 
gated the third and 
the fourth toes until 
they are longer 
than the first, a 
condition unknown 
in any race or in 
any Greek statue. 
And yet this 
pseudo- Greek foot 
has a great toe 
bent outwards as if 
it has worn a mere 
modern boot in- 
stead of the sandal 
or cothume^ which 
was surely the cor- 
rect thing in Delphi. 

The break in the 



and not as they had 
been represented 
far thousands o I 
years, they studied 
the foot as the foot 
really is,' Conse- 
quently, among the 
pictures of J. E, 
Millais, Hoi man 
Hunt, and Ford 
Madox Brown are 
found both the 
arch-toed and the 
even-toed foot* 

R o d i n, t h e 
modern exponent 
of realism in sculp- 
ture, also knows 
the foot as it is, for 
to him no part of 
the body has been 
unworthy of careful 
study and of repre- 
sentation as he finds 
it. Thus in u The 
Age of Bronze," the 
statue which was 
said to have been 
taken from a cast 
of the living model, 
the second toe is a „ 
little longer than 
the first, whilst in 
"Eve" the first toe 
is clearly the longer. 
The feet of the 
"Eve" are the 
typical feet of a 
woman of middle 
age who has been 
" well-booted," 
The whole foot has 
been squeezed by 
the boot, the great 
toe being bent out- 
wards and at the 
same time pushing 
the second toe out- 
wards, the joint is 
enlarged, and the 
little toe is bent 
inwards. It is not 
that the modern 
foot left to itself is 
unbeautifulj but 
that modern 
fashions demand 
the deformation of 
the man's foot to 


CbpwripSl. rrprodvtrd /rom w 

a small degree, and 
of the woman's 
foot, as in the 
universal "Eve/' to 
a considerable ex- 

The frequent pre- 
ference of artists 
and others for the 
arch - toed foot is 
one of our curious 
psychological ano- 
malies, for it is the 
more primitive foot ? 
the type which is 
nearer to the foot 
of an ape. It is 
rare that a primi- 
tive feature in man 
is regarded as an 
adjunct to beauty; 
as a rule, those 
physical features 
which are most re- 
moved from our 
anthropoid ances- 
tors are those that 
appeal most to our 
se&thetic sense, 
That the female of 
all animals — includ- 
ing man — tends to 
retain primitive 
characters longer 
than the male is 
here borne out by 
the greater preval- 
ence of the arch- 
toed foot amongst 

We may now 
turn from art to a 
consideration of the 
beauty of the foot 
of a real child, of 
which no photo- 
graph could give a 
better r epresenta- 
tion than the statue 
of Brahmstaedt 
(Fig, ii ). These 
feet are character* 
istic of all feet in 
repose , the toes 
being flexed and 
therefore giving an 
appearance of 
greater breadth 
^ffl&b&"iafcMICHIGAft»n is obtained 



from the foot when in use. How much 
narrower the foot appears in the " Mercury ?1 
than in the " Astragale Player ?5 — partly 
because the latter, somewhat rarely for a 





Fheto. by L. Lew «* $wt. 

classical statue, has the foot in repose. 
Now ^ it is this little squarish child's foot 
which we admire so much in comparison 
with the foot of the adult. But if this un- 
coloured picture of the child's foot is compared 
with the picture of the foot of an Englishman, 
one will realize that the child's foot makes its 
appeal, not because of its beauty of line, but 
much more because of its beautiful colour 
and texture. 

These children, and the Greek statues here 
illustrated, have the great toe in a straight 
line with the inner margin of the foot. This 
condition is to-day found in a number of 
adult men, in a very few women, but occurs 
m all children before they begin to wear 
H grown-up n shoes. 

A recent writer has greatly emphasized the 
small use the Greeks made of the little toe f 
as if this was a special Greek characteristic 
worthy of our careful imitation and cultiva- 
tion ! The little toe was degenerating in the 
time of the Greeks, not because the Greeks 
chose that it should, but on account of the 
general process of evolution. It has degene- 
rated still further to-day. The process has 
gone so far that in a number of individuals 
there are only two bones in the little toe. 
Formerly there would have been three. It 
has been stated that this change is taking 
place more quickly in men than in women, so 
that man's progress is distinguished from 
woman's both by the greatness of his great 
toe and the littleness of his little toe ! 

One may well speculate as to what is to 
be the toe-type of the future. It is found 

jhat if both the parents have even-toed feet, 
then the children have with very few excep- 
tions the same type of foot- If the parents 
differ, one having the even-toed and the other 
the arch- toed foot, the children again have 
mostly the great toe of the even-toed parent, 
whether that parent is the mother or the 



RACE Ok \U MiY Gilbrtlt STATUE* 



father; a few of the children, chiefly the 
girls, may have the second toe longest, and 
some may have the two feet differing as 
regards the length of the toe. 

This means that persons with the arch- 
toed foot must 
gra dually 
almost dis- 
appear from 
Western Euro- 
pean popula- 
tions, just 
because such 
persons will 
not be born. 
A parallel 
case is the 
almost to dis- 
appearance, of 
people* Most 
adult Anglo- 
Saxons are 
now brown- 
haired, al- 
though we 
know that 
many of our 
ancestors had 
the fairest of 
locks. These 
flaxen - haired 
progenitors of 
ours married 
with dark Celts 
or Danes , and 
their children 
had mostly 
dark hair, so 
gradually the 
flaxen - haired 
man or woman 
has become a 
rarity because 
such are rarely 
born. The 
children retain 
the fair hair 
for a time, just 
as for a time 
also they re- 
tain the arch- 
toed foot of their anthropoid ancestors. 
There is only one chance for the persistence 
or increase of persons with the arch-toed 
foot, and that is that that type should 
have some special racial advantage. But 
as the only advantage is the possibili.y 




of the artistic superiority of that type of foot, 
and as our feet are normally covered, the 
possession of an arch- toed foot cannot be an 
added inducement to marriage ! The only 
characteristic which has been connected with 

the type is a 
bad one — 
n e s s , Lom- 
broso having 
found this 
type particu- 
larly frequent 
among feeble- 
women, but 
his- observa- 
tions have not 
been con- 

There is 
much diversity 
of opinion as 
to whether 
beauty d e- 
mands a space 
between the 
first and 
second toes ; 
on the whole, 
Greek sculp* 
tures of the 
unclad foot 
show rather 
more space 
than is found 
among the feet 
that have been 
examined. But 
how far this 
was natural 
and how far 
due to the 
wearing of 
sandals it is 
impossible to 
state. Even 
sandals may 
deform a foot. 
If we seek 
beautiful feet 
we must en- 
tirely alter our 
foot-wear, and no doubt the partial abolition 
of shoes , promised as a fashion for 191 5, 
would be an aid. Then, for the first time, 
modern civilized man would discover what 
type of feet eyisteJ, ^nd of these which he 




Illustrated by Alfred Leete. 

PORTER, that great woman, 
was condescending to argue 
with Herbert Nixon, a mere 
menial. The points under 
discussion were three : — 
(a) Why had Herbert been 
absent from duty between the hours of 
3 p.m. and midnight on the previous day ? 
(£) Why had he returned singing ? 
(c) Why had he divested himself of his 
upper garments and stood for twenty minutes 
before the front door, daring the Kaiser to 
come out and have his head knocked off ? 

Those were the main counts in Mrs. Porter s 
indictment, and she urged them with the 
skill of one who for many years had been in 
the forefront of America's Feminist move- 
ment- A trained orator and logic ian ; she 
made mincemeat of Mr. Nixon, 

Herbert's official position was that of odd- 
job man to the house which Mrs. Porter had 
taken for the summer in England, He had 
gone with the place as a sort of bonus. 
" You don't understand, ma'am/ 7 he said, 

VoL ritar,_M, 

pityingly. * f Being a female, you wouldn't 
understand. It's polerticks. This 'ere 
country 'as 'ad to go to war n 

11 And so you had to go and stupefy the 
few brains you possess at the village inn ? I 
don't see the connection." 

il 1 can't argue with you, ma'am," said Mr, 
Nixon, patiently. " My ead don't seem just 
right this morning. All I know is " 

" All / know is that you tan go right away 
now and look for another job." 

" 'Ave it your own way, ma'am, 'ave it 
your own way. If you don't want me, there's 
others that'll be glad to 'ave me," 

tl Don't let me keep you from them/ 1 said 
Mrs, Porter, " Good morning." 

Herbert vanished, and Mrs. Porter, dipping 
her pen in the ink, resumed the chapter of 
" Woman in the New Era 7i which his entry 
had interrupted, 

Sybil Bannister came into the room. She 
was small and fluffy. Mrs* Porter greeted 
her with an indulgent smile. Ruthless 
towards the Herbert Nixons, she unbent with 
Sybil. Sybil was her disciple. She regarded 




her as a gardener regards some promising 
young plant. 

Six months before Sybil had been what 
Mrs. Porter called undeveloped. That is to 
say, she had been content to live a peaceful 
life in her New York home, worshipping her 
husband, Mrs. Porter's nephew Hailey. The 
spectacle of a woman worshipping any man 
annoyed Mrs. Porter. To see one worship- 
ping Hailey, for whom she entertained the 
contempt which only strong-minded aunts 
can feel for their nephews, stirred her to her. 

Hailey, it is true, had not been a perfect 
husband. He was a rather pompous young 
man, dictatorial, and inclined to consider 
that the machinery of the universe should 
run with his personal comfort as its guiding 
motive. But Sybil had not noticed these 
things till Mrs. Porter pointed them out to 
her. Until Mrs. Porter urged her to assert 
her rights, she had not thought the matter out 
sufficiently to understand that she had any. 

That determined woman took the situation 
strongly in hand. Before Hailey knew what 
had struck him the home was a battlefield, 
and when the time arrived for Mrs. Porter to 
go to England ^things came to a head. She 
invited Sybil to accompany her. Hailey 
forbade her to go. Sybil went. , That is the 
whole campaign in a nutshell. 

4< I have just dismissed Nixon," said Mrs. 
Porter. " I have no objection to England 
going to war, but I will not have my odd-job 
man singing patriotic songs in the garden at 

From the beginning of hostilities Mrs. 
Porter's attitude towards the European War 
had been clearly defined. It could continue, 
provided it did not bother her. If it bothered 
her it must stop. 

Sybil looked uncomfortable. 

ki Aunt Lora, don't you think — I've been 
thinking — I believe I ought to go home." 

44 Ridiculous ! You are perfectly safe here." 

" I wasn't thinking so much about myself. 
I — I believe Hailey will be worried about me." 

Mrs. Porter directed at her shrinking 
prottgle one of the severe stares which had 
done so much to unman Mr. Nixon at their 
recent interview. This was backsliding, and 
must be checked. 

" So much the better. It is just what 
Hailey wants— to have to worry about some- 
body except himself. The trouble with 
Hailey has always been that things have been 
made too comfortable for him. He has never 
had proper discipline. When Hailey was a 

child I once spanked him with a clothes- 

k ilJO'. 

brush. The effects, while they lasted, were 
extremely gratifying. Unfortunately, imme- 
diately after the incident I ceased to be on 
speaking terms with his father, so was not 
able to follow up the good work/' 

Sybil shifted uneasily. She looked 

" He's my husband," she said. 

" It's too late to worry about that." 

" He was always very kind to me." 

" Nonsense, child ! He treated you like a 
door-mat. When he was in a bad temper 
he snarled at you ; when he was in a good 
temper he patronized you." 

" He's very fond of me." 

u Then why doesn't he try to get you back ? 
Has he written you a single letter, asking you 
to go home, in the last two months ? " 

" You don't understand Hailey, Aunt Lora. 
He's so proud." 

4i Tchah ! " 

When Mrs. Porter said " Tchah ! " it was 
final. There was nothing ill-tempered or 
violent about the ejaculation : it was simply 
final. Sybil withdrew. 

It was Mrs. Porter's daily practice, when 
she had made her simple breakfast and given 
her household staff its instructions, to walk 
briskly out of her garden-gate, proceed for a 
mile down the high road, then, turning, to 
walk back and begin work on her current 
book. The procedure had two advantages. 
It cleared her brain, and it afforded mild 
exercise to Mike, her Irish terrier. 

On the morning after the rout of Herbert 
Nixon, she had just emerged from the garden, 
when she was aware of a ragged figure coming 
towards her down the straight white road. 
She called to the dog, who was sniffing at an 
attractive-smelling dead bird which he had 
located under the hedge. 

u Mike ! " 

Lora Delane Porter was not afraid of 
tramps ; but it is no sign of fear to mobilize 
your forces ; it is merely a sensible pre- 
caution in case of accidents. She mobilized 
Mike. He left the bird, on which he had in- 
tended to roll, with a back-glance of regret, 
and came trotting to her side. 

" To heel ! " said Mrs. Porter. 

The tramp was a typical ruffian of his 
species. He was unkempt and grimy ; he 
wore a soiled hat, a grey suit of clothes 
picked out with splashes of brown and green, 
and there was no collar round his neck. He 
walked as if he had been partially ham- 
strung by a bungling amateur who had made 
a bad job ofjilttdl 




As she drew 
level with him he 
looked at her, 
stopped, and 
said: "Aunt 
Lora ! n 

Mrs. Porter 
made it a rule to 
pass the ordinary 
tramp without a 
glance; but 
tramps who ad- 
dressed her as 
"Aunt Lora" 
merited inspec- 
tion. She ac- 
corded this 
inspection to the 
man before her, 
and gave a little 
gasp. His face 
was obscured by 
dust and perspi- 
ration, and he 
had a scrubby 
beard ; but she 
recognized him, 


To preserve a 
perfect poise in 
the face of all of 
life's untoward 
happenings was 
part of Mrs. 
Porter's religion. 
Though, for all 
her stem force of 
character, she 
was now i n- 
wardly aflame 
with curiosity, 
she did not show 
it in her manner. 

H What are 
you doing here, 
Hailey? '■ she in- 
quired, calmly. 

He passed the ruins of a silk handkerchief 
over his grimy face and groaned. He was a 
shocking spectacle. 

44 I've had an awful time ! " 

11 You look it." 

I: I've walked every step of the way from 
Southampton. " 

u Why ? " 

" Why ! Because I had to. Do I look as 
if I were doing this for my health ? " 

" It's an excellent thing for your health. 
You always did shirk exercise/!-* 

Digitized by L:.OOgle 

Hailey drew 
himself up and 
fixed his aunt 
with a gaze 
which was a 
little too blood- 
shot to he really 

11 Aunt Lora, 
do not misunder- 
stand me. I have 
not come to you 
for sympathy. I 
have not come 
to you for assist- 
ance. I have 

not " 

"You look 
like a walking 
ploughed field." 
"1 have merely 

come " 

"Have you 
been sleeping in 
those clothes ? " 
Hailey' s hau- 
teur changed to 
a human irrita- 

" Yes, I have 
been sleeping in 
these clothe s, 
and I wish you 
wouldn't look at 
me as if I were 
a kind of freak," 
"But v o u 

11 Aunt Lora, I 
have not come to 

youforsym " 

u Bless the 

boy, don't tell 

me all the things 

you have not 

c om e to me 

for. What have 

you come for ? In the first place, why are 

you in England at all ? Have you come to 

try and get Sybil to go home ? " 

" I have not. If Sybil is to return home, 
she must do so of her own free will, I shall 
not attempt to persuade her. I am here 
because, on the declaration of war, I was 
obliged to leave Paris, where 1 was spending 
a vacation. When I reached Southampton 
and tried to get a boat back to New York I 
found it impossible. My traveller's cheques 
and my letter of credit were valueless, and I 


VOU LOOK like: a walking 



was without a penny. I had lost all my 
baggage. I set out to walk to you because 
you were the only person who could tell me 
where Professor Tupper-Smith lived." 

*' Professor Tupper-Smith ? " 

" Certainly. Professor Tupper-Smith. The 
English bore you planted on me when he 
visited New York last year." 

Hailey spoke bitterly. Over the uncon- 
scious head of this same Professor Tupper- 
Smith there had raged one of the most serious 
of the battles which had shattered his domestic 
peace. The professor was a well-known Eng- 
lish writer on sociology, who had come to 
New York with a letter of introduction to 
Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Porter, wishing to house 
him more comfortably than he was being 
housed at his hotel, had taken him to Sybil. 
Hailey was out of town at the time, and the 
thing had been done in his absence. He and 
Sybil had had one of their first quarrels about 
it. In the end the professor had stayed on, 
and incidentally nearly driven Hailey mad. 

Now, if a man had nearly driven you mad 
in New York, bursting with your meat the 
while, the least he can do, when you call on 
him, destitute, in England, is to honour your 
note-of-hand for a few hundred dollars. 

That was how Hailey had argued, and that 
was what had driven him to his aunt. She 
knew the location of this human El Dorado ; 
he did not. 

" Why do you want to see Professor Tupper- 
Smith ? " 

Hailey kicked the hard road in his emotion. 

" I want to ask him for his photograph. 
That's all. Of course, I entertain no idea of 
petting him to lend me money so that I can 
get back to New York. As he is the only man 
I know in England, naturally that had not 
occurred to me." 

Mrs. Porter was a grim woman, sparing 
^vith her smiles, but at these words she laughed 

" Why, of course ! Do you know, Hailey, 
I think I must be getting stupid. I never 
realized till now what a complete fix you 
were in." 

" Will you tell me that man's address ? " 

" No. At least, not for a long time. But 
I'll do something else. I'll give you a job." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" Hailey, you always were an undisciplined 
child. I often told your father so — when we 
were on speaking terms. Rich men's sons 
are always like that. I was saying to Sybil 
only yesterday that what you needed was 
discipline. Discipline and honest work ! 
They may make something of you 

odd- job man left me yesterday — you shall 
take his place. You know what an odd- job 
man is, I presume ? He does odd jobs about 
the house and garden. For instance " — she 
looked past him — " he washes the dog. 1 
see that Mike is rolling again. He cannot 
understand that we don't Hke it. You had 
better catch him and wash him at once, 
Hailey. Take care he does not bite you. 
Irish terriers are quick-tempered." 

" Aunt Lora, do you imagine for a moment 
that I am going to " 

" You won't find out where Professor 
Tupper-Smith lives if you don't." 

Hailey's unshaven jaw fell. There was a 
silence broken only by the pleased snortings 
of Mike. 

" Aunt Lora, if it is your wish to humiliate 

" Don't be absurd, child. Humiliate you, 
indeed ! You talk as if you were a prince of 
the blood. I am doing you a great kindness. 
This will be the making of you. You have 
been spoiled since you were a boy. You 
treated Sybil as if you were a Sultan. You 
were a mass of conceit. A month or two of 
this will " 

" A month or two ! " 

"Or three," said Mrs. Porter. "Well, 
make up your mind quickly. You have a 
perfectly free choice. If you prefer to go on 
tramping through England, by all means do 

A minute later Mike, busy with his bird, 
felt his collar grasped. He gazed up into a 
set, scrubby-bearded face. It was the face 
of a man with a hidden sorrow. 

" Under the tap in the stable-yard is the 
best place," said Mrs. Porter. 

Of the two principals in the ablutions of 
Mike, the bather and the bathed, it would 
have been hard for an impartial spectator 
to have said which looked the unhappier. 
Mike's views on total immersion were peculiar. 
To plunge into any river, pond, or other sheet 
of water was one of his chief pleasures. In a 
tub, with soap playing a part in the proceed- 
ings, he became a tortured martyr. 

Nor did Hailey approach the operation in 
a more rollicking spirit. He had never 
washed a dog before. When his dog in New 
York required washing, some underling below- 
stairs did it. The thought crossed his mind, 
as he wrought upon Mike, that whatever that 
underling's wages were, they were not enough. 

He was concentrating tensely upon his 
task when Sybil entered the yard. 

Sybil ^friqivia It'll e grip of a number of 




emotions. When Mrs. Porter had informed 
her of Hailey's miraculous uppranunT. joy 
had predominated. When she learned of his 
misfortunes, it had been succeeded by pity. 
Then the curious fact came home to her that, 
though Hailey was apparently there, he had 
not yet appeared hefore her. And when this 
mystery was explained hy the information 
that he was washing the dog in the stable- 
Yard, her astonishment grew. Finally, when 
she had grasped the whole position of affairs 
a great dismay came upon her. She knew 
Hailey so well — his pride, his sensitive 
fastidiousness, his aloofness from all that was 
rough and undignified in the world. This 
was terrible- She pleaded with Mrs. Porter, 

but Mrs. Porter re- 
mained resolute. 

Then she sped to 
the stable- yar d, 
to witness the horror 
for herself, 


in the stable-yard. Hailey looked at Sybil 
Sybil stood there without a word. Mike 
shivered miserably^ as one on the brink of 
the tomb. 

" Well ? " said Hailey, at length, 
" Oh T Hailev ! " 
" Well ? " 

" Oh, Hailev, it is nice seeing you again ! 7 ' 
"hit?" ' 

Sybil's mouth quivered, and her eyes grew 
large and plaintive. Hailey did not soften, 
Sybil, he reminded himself, was in Mrs. 
Porter's camp, and it was Mrs, Porter who 
had inflicted this beast of a dog on him. 

He removed Mike from the tub and tn- 
veloped him in the towel. 
" Hailev, dear, don't be cross/' 

It is difficult for a man conscious of a four 
days' heard and perhaps a quarter of an inch 
of English soil on all the exposed parts of his 
person to raise his eyes with chilly dignity, 
hut Hailev did it. He did it twice. 
" Cross > M 

" I begged Aunt Lora not to " 

"Not to 
what ? n 

" Not to — to 
make you do this. 
I begged her to 
ask you to — to 
stay with us;'* 

" I am staying 
with you-" 

4t I mean as a 

A third time 
Hailey raised 
those dusty eye- 

"Do you 
imagine for ji 
moment that 
I w r ould accept 
mv aunt's hospi- 
tality ? " 

There was a 

Hailey released 

Mike, who shot 

out of the yard 

like a torpedo, 

u Why did you 

—j come to Eng- 

&T _A* land, Hailey ? " 

^^^^ '* I was on a 

vacation in 
France, and had 
you again ! " '- to leave/ 1 




" You didn't come to — to see me ? " 

" No." 

" Hailey, you don't seem very fond of me." 

Hailey picked up the towel and folded it. * 

"If Aunt Lora tells you where Mr. Tupper- 
Smith lives, I suppose you will go back to 
New York again ? " 

" If Mr. Tupper-Smith will lend me the 
money, I shall go by the first boat." 

He lifted the tub with an air of finality, 
and emptied it down the drain. Sybil 
paused irresolutely for a moment, then 
walked slowly away. 

The days which followed did nothing to 
relieve Hailey's depression. Indeed, they 
deepened it. He had not imagined that he 
could ever feel sorrier for himself than he had 
felt by bedtime that first night, but he dis- 
covered that he had merely, so to speak, 
scratched the surface of gloom. 

On the second day he sought audience of 
his aunt. 

" Aunt Lora, this cannot continue." 

" Why ? Have you decided to become a 
tramp again ? " 

" You are taking an unjustifiable advantage 
of my misfortune in being helpless to resent 
it to " 

" When you were a small boy, Hailey, you 
came to visit me once, and behaved like a 
perfect little devil. I took advantage of your 
misfortune in being helpless to resent it to 
spank you with a clothes-brush. My mistake 
was that I stopped the treatment before I 
had cured you. The treatment has now 
begun again, and will continue till you are 
out of danger." 

" Aunt Lora, you cannot realize the humilia- 
tion of my position." 

" Nonsense ! Use your imagination. Try 
to think you're a pioneer out in the West." 

" I have no ambition to be a pioneer out 
in the West." 

" Your real trouble, Hailey, is that you 
think the society beneath you." 

" I am not accustomed to hob-nob with 

" It is exceedingly good of my cook to let 
you hob-nob with her. She knows you came 
here without a reference, after having been a 
tramp. It shows she is not a snob." 

Hailey returned to his hewing of wood and 
drawing of water. 

For a rather excessively fastidious young 
man with an extremely high opinion of him- 
self there are more congenial walks in life 
than that of odd-job man in a country house. 

The duties of an odd- job man are extensive 

and peculiar. He is seldom idle. If the cook 
does not require him to chop wood, the 
gardener commandeers him for potato- 
digging. He cleans the knives ; he cleans 
the shoes ; he cleans the windows ; he cleans 
the dog. In a way his is an altruistic life, 
for his primary mission is to scatter sweetness 
and light, and to bestow on others benefits in 
which he himself cannot share ; but it is not 
an easy one. 

Hailey did all these things and others 
besides. His work began at an hour which 
in happier days he had looked on as part of 
the night, and it ended when sheer mental 
fatigue made it impossible for those in com- 
mand over him to think up anything else for 
him to do. When this happened, he would 
light his pipe and stroll moodily in the garden. 
It was one small count in his case against 
Fate that he, once known for his nice taste 
in cigars, should be reduced to a cheap 
wooden pipe and the sort of tobacco they sell 
in English villages. 

His was not a nature that adapted itself 
readily to deviations from habit, particularly 
when such deviations involved manual labour. 
There were men of his acquaintance in New 
York who would have treated his predicament 
in a spirit of humorous adventure. But then 
they were men whose idea of enjoyment was 
to camp out in lonely woods with a guide and 
a fishing-rod. Newport was the wildest life 
that Hailey had ever known. He hated dis- 
comfort ; he hated manual labour ; he hated 
being under orders ; and he hated the society 
of his social inferiors. To treat his present 
life in a whimsically adventurous spirit was 
beyond him. 

Of all its disagreeable features, possibly 
that which he resented most was the sense of 
inferiority which it brought with it. In the 
real fundamentals of existence, he now per- 
ceived, such as reducing unwieldy blocks of 
wood to neat faggots and putting a polish on 
a shoe, he was useless. He, Hailey Bannister, 
respected in Wall Street as a coming man, 
was continually falling short of even the 
modest standard of efficiency set up by his 
predecessor, Mr. Nixon. The opinion below- 
stairs was that Herbert had been pretty bad, 
but that Hailey was unspeakable. They were 
nice about it — but impatient, distinctly im- 
patient ; and it wounded Hailey. He tried 
to tell himself that the good opinion of the 
masses was not worth having, but he could 
not bring himself to believe it. For the first 
time in his life he found himself humble, even 
apologetic. It is sailing for a young man's 

"WlffiiWwSdMS»r l ,ail through 



sheer incompetence to do as the Romans do. 
There were moments when a word of praise 
from the cook would have given Hailey more 
satisfaction than two successful deals in Wall 

It was by chance rather than design that 
Sybil chose the psychological moment for 
re-entering his life. His moods since his 
arrival had alternated between a wild yearn- 
ing for her and positive dislike. But one 
night, as he stood smoking in the stable-yard, 
he was longing for her with a sentimental 
fervour of 
which in the 
days of his 
freedom he had 
never been 
capable. It had 
been a particu- 
larly hard day, 
and, as he stood 
poisoning the 
summer night 
with his 
tobacco, a great 
loneliness and 
remorse filled 
him. He had 
treated Sybil 
badly, he told 
himself. He 
went over in 
his mind epi- 
sodes of their 
life together in 
New York , and 
shuddered at 
the picture he 
conjured up of 
himself. No 
wonder she 
shunned him. 

And, as he 
stood there, 
she c-a m e to 

M Hailey ! " 

She was 
nervous, and 
he did not 
wonder at it, 
A girl com- 
ing to speak 
to the sort of 
{nan he had 
just been con- 
t e m p 1 a ting 
might h a v e 
been excused 



if she had called out the police reserves as 

an escort. 
lt Yes ? " 
He was horrified at the gruffness of his 

voice. He had meant to speak with tender 

softness. It was this had tobacco. 
11 Hailey t dear, I've brought you this.' 
Wonderful intuition of Woman ! It was 

the one thing he desired — a fat cigar, and } as 

his trained senses told him ; a cigar of qua] it v. 

He took it in a silence too deep for words. 
* We were calling on some people. The 

man's study- 
door was open, 
and I saw the 
box — I hadn't 
time to take 
more than one 
—I thought 
vou would like 

HaiJey could 
not speak. He 
was overcome. 
He kissed her. 

He was con- 
scious of a 
curious dizzi- 

In the old 
days kissing 
Sybil had 
always been 
one of his daily 
acts, He had 
done it first 
thing in the 
morning, lust 
thing at night. 
It had not 
made him dizzy 
then. He had 
never even 
derived any 
particular plea- 
sure from it, 
especially in the 
morning, when 
he was a little 
late, and the 
car was waiting 
to take him to 
business and 
the butler 
standing by 
with his hat 
and cane, Then 
it had some- 
BwuttHT¥ou^ na | from times been 






almost a nuisance, and only his rigid con- 
scientiousness had made him do it. But 
now, in the scented dusk of this summer 
night — well j it was different. It was intensely 

" I must go back," she said, quickly. 
" Aunt Lora is waiting for me." 

Reluctantly he released her, and the night 
swallowed her up. It was a full minute before 
he moved* 

He became aware of something in his right 
hand. It was the broken remnants of a 
crushed cigar, 

They fell into the habit of meeting in the 
garden after dark, All day he looked forward 
to these moments. Somehow they seemed 
to supply something which had always been 
lacking in his life. He had wooed Sybil in 
the days before their marriage in ballrooms 
and drawing-rooms. It had seemed quite 
satisfactory to him at the time ; but this— 
this stealthy coming together in the darkness, 
these whispered conversations under the 
stars- — this was what he had always been 
starving for. He realized it now. 

His outlook on life seemed to change. He 
saw things with different eyes, Quite sud- 
denly it was borne in upon him how amazingly 
fit he felt. In New York he hud been exact- 
ing in the matter of food, critical, and hard 

to please. Now, if supper was a trifle behind 
time, he had to exercise restraint to keep 
himself from raiding the larder. Hitherto 
unsuspected virtues in cold mutton were 
revealed to him. It might be humiliating 
for a young man highly respected in Wall 
Street and in the clubs of New York to chop 
wood j sweep leaves, and dig potatoes, but 
these things certainly made for health. 

Nor had his views on the society in which 
he moved remained unaltered The cook — 
what a good, motherly soul, always ready 
with a glass of beer when the heat of the day- 
made work oppressive. The gardener — what 
a sterling conversationalist ! The parlour- 
maid — what a military expert ! That night 
at supper, when the parlour-maid exposed 
Germany's entire plan of campaign, while the 
cook said that she never did hold with war, 
and the gardener told the story of his uncle 
who had lost a leg in the Indian Mutiny, was 
one of the most enjoyable that Hailey had 
ever spent. 

One portion of Hai ley's varied duties was 
to walk a mile down the road and post letters 
at the village post -office. He general J y was 
not required to do this till late in the evening, 
but occasionally there would be an important 
letter for the morning post, for Mrs, Porter 
was a voluminous correspondent. 




One morning j as he was turning in at the 
gate on his way back from the village, a voice 
addressed him, and he was aware of a man in 
a black suit, .seated upon a tricycle. 

This in itself would have been enough to 
rivet his interest, for he had never in his life 
seen a man on a tricycle. But it was not 
only the tricycle that excited him. The voice 
seemed familiar. It aroused vaguely un- 
pleasant memories, 

" My good man — why, Mr, Bannister ! 
Bless my soul ! I had no idea you were in 
England. I am delighted to see you. I 
never tire of telling my friends of your kind- 
ness to me in New York." 

The landscape reeled before Hailey's blink- 
ing eyes. Speech was wiped from his lips. 
It was Professor Tupper-Smith, 

" I must not offer to shake hands, Mr. 
Bannister. I have 
no doubt there is 
still risk of infec- 
tion, How is the 
patient ? " 

"Eh?" said 

** M amps is a 
painful, distress- 
ing malady, but 
happily not dan- 

" Mumps ? M 

"Mrs, Porter 
told me that there 
was mumps in the 
house. I trust all 
is now well ? That 
is what has kept 
me away. Mrs. 
Porter knows how 
apprehensive I am 
of all infectious 
ailments, and ex 
pressly forbade me 
to call. Previously 
I had been a dailv 
visitor. It has 
been a great 
deprivation to 
me, I can assure 
you, Mr. Ban- 
nister, A woman 
of wonderful intelli- 
gence ! " 

" Do you mean to tell me — do you live 
near here ? M 

" That house you see through the trees is 

Hailey drew a deep breath. 

Vol. xlix.— 40. 

11 Could I speak to you/' he said, 
matter of importance ? " 

on a 


In the stable-yard, which their meetings 
had hallowed for him^ Hailey stood waiting 
that night. There had been rain earlier in 
the evening, and the air was soft and mild, 
and heavy with the scent oE flowers. But 
Hailey was beyond the soothing influence 
of cool air and sweet scents. He felt 

She had been amusing herself with him, 
playing with him. There could be no other 
explanation. She had known all the time 
that this man Tupper-Smith was living at 
their very gates, and she had kept it from 
him. She had known what it meant to 
him to find the man, and she had kept it 
from him, He waited grimly. 

" Hailey ! IJ 
There was a 
glimmer of white 
against the 
" Here I am-" 
She came to 
h i m, her face 
raised, but he drew 

"Sybil/' he said, 
"I ne%er asked you 
before. Can you tell 
me where this man 
Tu pper-Smith 
lives ? M 

She started. He 
could only see her 
dimly, but he 
sensed it. 
" N-no." 
He smiled bit- 
terly. She had the 
grace to hesitate. 
That, he supposed, 
must be put to her 

" Strange/' he 

said. " He lives 

in that red house 

down the road. 

Curious your not 

knowing, when he 

used to come here 

so often." 

When Sybil spoke, her voice was a whisper. 

" I was afraid it would happen." 

"Yes; I'm sorry I have not been able to 

amuse you longer. But it must have teen 

ddi g h^| V ^ rv ^ F l^ 1G ^pu certainly 



fooled me. I didn't even think it worth 
while asking you if you knew his address. I 
took it for granted that, if you had known, 
you would have told me. And you were 
laughing the whole time ! Well, I suppose 
I ought not to blame you. I can see now that 
I used to treat you badly in Nfcw York, and 
you can't be blamed for getting even. Well, 
I'm afraid the joke's over now. I met him 
this morning." 

" Hailey, you don't understand." 

" Surely it couldn't be much plainer ? " 

" I couldn't tell you. I— I couldn't." 

" Of course not. It would have spoiled 

" You know it was not that. It was 
because — do you remember the day you 
came here ? You told me then that, directly 
you found him, you would go back to 

" Well ? " 

" Well, I didn't want you to go. And 
afterwards, when we began to meet like this, 
I — still more didn't want you to go." 

A bird rustled in the trees behind them. 
The rustling ceased. In the distance a corn- 
crake was calling monotonously. The sound 
came faintly over the meadows, emphasizing 
the stillness. 

" Don't you understand ? You must under- 
stand. I was awfully sorry for you, but I 
was selfish. I wanted to keep you. It has 
all been so different here. Over in New York 
we never seemed to be together. We used 
to quarrel. Everything seemed to go wrong. 
But here it>has been perfect. It was like 
being togetheihon a desert island. I couldn't 
end it. I hated to see you unhappy, and I 
wanted it to go on for ever. So " 

Groping at a venture, he found her arm, 
and held it. 

" Sybil ! Sybil, dear, I'm going back to- 
morrow ; going home. Will you come with 
me ? " 

" I thought you had given me up. I 
thought vou never wanted me back. You 
said " 

" Forget what I said. When you left New 
York I was a fool. I was a brute. I'm 
different now. Listen, Sybil. Tupper-Smith 
— I always liked that man — lent me fifty 
pounds this morning. In gold ! He tri- 
cycled five miles to get it. That's the sort of 
man he is. I hired a car, went to South- 
ampton, and fixed things up with the skipper 
of an American tramp. She sails to-morrow 
night. Sybil, will you come ? There's acres 

by Google 

of room, and you*U like the skipper. He 
chews tobacco. A corking chap ! Will you 
come ? " 

He could hear her crying. He caught her 
to him in the darkness. 

" Will you ? " 

" Oh, my dear ! " 

" It isn't a floating palace, you know. It's 
just an old, rusty tramp-ship. We may 
make New York in three weeks, or we may 
not. There won't be much to eat except 
corned beef and crackers. And, Sybil — er — 
do you object to a slight smell of pigs ? The 
last cargo was pigs, and you can still notice 
it a little." 

" I love the smell of pigs, Hailey, dear," 
said Sybil. 

In the drawing-room Lora Delane Porter, 
that great woman, relaxed her powerful mind 
with a selected volume of Spinoza's " Ethics." 
She looked up as Sybil entered. 

" You've been crying, child." 

" I've been talking to Hailey." 

Mrs. Porter dropped Spinoza and stiffened 
militantly in her chair. 

" If that boy Hailey has been bullying you, 
he shall wash Mike now." 

" Aunt Lora, I want to go home to-morrow, 

" What ! " 

" Hailey has met Mr. Tupper-Smith, and 
he lent him fifty pounds, and he motored into 
Southampton " 

" Mr. Tupper-Smith ? " 

"No; Hailey." 

" That's where he was all the afternoon ! 
No wonder they couldn't find him to dig the 

" And he has bought accommodation for 
me and himself on a tramp-steamer which 
has been carrying pigs. We shall live on 
corned beef and crackers, and we may get to 
New York some time or we may not. And 
Hailey says the captain is such a nice man, 
who chews tobacco." 

Mrs. Porter started. 

" Sybil, do you mean to tell me that Hailey 
proposes to sail to New York on a tramp- 
steamer that smells of pigs, and live on corned 
beef and crackers ? And that he likes a man 
who chews tobacco ? " 

" He said he was a corking chap." 

Mrs. Porter picked up her Spinoza. 

" Well, well," she said. " I failed with the 
clothes-brush, but I seem to have worked 
wonders with the simple-life treatment." 

Original from 





Illustrated ty Dudley Tennant. 


ORACE WELTER had prob- 
ably assisted the escape of 
more runaway convicts — 
thereby earning gratitude 
more or less undying, and 
setting many erring and re- 
pentant men upon new roads 
which should lead to higher things — than any 
man living. He may be said to have 
specialized in the business. 

This is written, of course, in the fictional 
sense alone. Truly speaking, Horace Welter 
had never seen a convict in his life, save in 
pictures ; but the subject had always fasci- 
nated him. Horace Welter, as, of course, you 
know, was the man who wrote " Who Was 
Convict 101 ? " — that sensational story which 
fascinated the readers of a certain paper for 
many weeks, and was only brought to a more 
or less definite conclusion with the last 
number, -That particular story started Horace 
Welter on the road to fame, and he may be 
said never to have looked back. 

He had originally taken up story-writing 
as a hobby. Possessed of considerable means 
of his own, and having a rather fine collection 
of old and valuable gems and curios, which 
he had designed at a later time to present to 
the nation, Horace had no real need to work 
for a living. But the idea of writing a sensa- 
tional story around that more or less romantic 

figure, the modern convict, shut away behind 
walls, had first occurred to him in an idle 
moment ; and, as he expressed it afterwards, 
he had " jotted the thing down." And after 
that, of course, tfye demand for stories of 
that nature was very great, and Horace set 
himself sedulously to fulfil it. 

The stories he wrote, both long and small, 
all eventually turned upon the one subject. 
Almost invariably the particular convict 
hero had been innocently convicted, chiefly 
through the machinations of the villain ; and 
the convict hero had very properly made 
up his mind to put an end to an intolerable 
state of things by escaping. There was 
invariably someone he loved outside the 
prison — a young and struggling wife and, 
usually speaking, a child ; and his passionate 
longing was to get at them. In all cases, as 
one finds when examining Horace Welter's 
stories, some friendly hand was stretched out 
to him outside the prison, and he was enabled 
to escape. 

It had never occurred to Horace Welter 
to alter the style of his stories, perhaps for 
the simple reason that nothing else was 
demanded of him. Moreover, he had moved 
with the times. Beginning years ago, before 
the days of swift traction, he had concealed 
his convict hero in a hay-cart, or in some 
antiquated horse-drawn vehicle ; it was only 



in the later period of his writing that he 
turned to motor-cars as a simple and swifter 

" You see, it's such a very simple matter," 
he said once to his admiring friend, Rayson. 
" The fellow escapes usually at dead of night 
— boring himself out of the place, as you might 
say, by means of something he has concealed 
about him, and which he had originally taken 
from the blacksmith's shop. He is alone in 
the darkness ; but the inevitable dawn is 
coming, when he must be tracked down and 
discovered. In the old days it was, of course, 
inevitable that the first thing he should do 
would be to conceal his prison-like appearance 
as much as possible. That meant breaking 
into a housfe and securing a suit of clothes, 
which might or might not fit him." 

" Just chance or luck, I suppose ? " inter- 
jected Rayson. 

Horace Welter nodded. " I can assure 
you, my dear fellow, that in the old days it 
was extremely difficult," he answered, feel- 
ingly. " You had absolutely to invent a 
man that would be almost the tailor's measure 
of the escaping convict ; and if he was a big 
man he must necessarily be a coward, in 
order to be properly overawed, either on a 
lonely hillside or in his own house ; if he 
was a little man it did not matter so much. 
With the coming of the motor-car things 
were changed." 

" You got him away quicker ? " suggested 
the unintelligent Rayson. 

" That was not the point," retorted Horace. 
" The real point was that you had to your 
hand a complete and sufficient disguise ; 
you could have driven the man through an 
army of warders, and not one of them would 
have recognized him. You simply put him 
into a motor-coat, a c^tp well down over his 
ears, and the inevitable goggles. His own 
mother would not have recognized him. Per- 
sonally, though I do not depend upon this 
business for a living, I bless the advent 
of the motor-car. Beside being a pleasant 
mode of locomotion, it has lifted up my style 
of fiction immensely and added a new zest 
to it." 

It is probable that, much as he liked his 
self-imposed work, Horace Welter would 
never have taken himself so seriously as he 
ultimately did had not a misguided paper 
sent a man to interview him. The misguided 
paper had determined to refer to him as a 
" new note in fiction " ; and Horace Welter 
was surprised and strangely uplifted. In a 
sense he let himself go, and said a great many 
things on the spur of the moment that he 

might not have said in cold blood. Some of 
the things came out strangely and startlingly 
in print. 

" Yes, the subject has always fascinated 
me. It is the last touch of romance in a 
decadent world. The unfortunate wretch who 
has been shut away behind prison bars is to 
me an appealing and a pathetic figure ; and 
from the moment when his craving for the 
free air overwhelms him, and he makes that 
bold dash for liberty which may end for him 
with a. warder's bullet in his back, I range 
myself with sympathy beside him. With a 
heart beating strongly I watch his desperate 
flight across country ; I observe him as he 
hides and dodges ; I find myself unconsciously 
praying for his safety. His crime against 
society is forgotten ; he is to me a hunted 
wretch — and I am on the side of the 

" You have never actually experienced 
that about which you have written so often 
and so ably, I believe, Mr. Welter ? " the 
interviewer suggested. " I mean that it has 
never been your good or bad fortune to come 
face to face with a desperate man of that 

" Only in imagination," replied Horace 
Welter. " But in imagination I can see 
myself doing exactly what I have so often 
described in my stories ; helping, to the best 
of my ability, any unfortunate wretch who 
might chance to come to me in such a plight. 
The law is strong enough to look after itself ; 
I would at least give my convict a sporting 
chance. Besides " — Horace Welter smiled at 
this point, and the interviewer made a note 
of it — " it would be fine experience for me ; 
I should be working on the actual material, 
and I should know exactly what to do." 

" Let us hope, for your sake, Mr. Welter, 
that such a thing will not happen," said the 
interviewer. " You might come across a 
really desperate criminal " 

" Pardon me ; however desperate the man 
might be, I think that I should turn him into 
a grateful criminal," said Horace, simply. 
" And now come and be introduced to Mrs. 
Welter ; and after that you must see my 
famous collection of gems before you return 
to London. I should rather like, between 
ourselves, for you to mention the famous 
collection of gems," Horace added, softly. 

Horace Welter sent his guest to the railway- 
station in time to catch the one train back to 
London ; and he sent him in his new and 
expensive motor-car. As the interviewer 
stood for 2. moment on the steps of the 

^m-'few^feHte^i towards a lon « 



line of buildings that topped the hill in the 
distance — about the only building in sight. 

" What's that place ? " he asked. 

" That, my dear sir, is the prison," answered 
Horace, complacently. " I am, as you see, 
on the spot." 

" That's very interesting," said the inter- 
viewer, making a hasty note in the book he 
pulled out of 'his pocket. 

" Yes. It provides me with local colour, 
and, if I may say so, feeds the imagination. 
The governor of the prison is a personal friend 
of mine ; but even that wouldn't make any 
difference to my attitude in the event of any 
one of his prisoners escaping ; I've told him 
so. And now good day to you, and a pleasant 
journey. My man will see that you reach 
the station in time. And don't forget to 
mention my collection — will you ? " 

" I'll be sure to put it in, Mr. Welter," said 
the interviewer, and the car drove off. 

That interview provided quite a sensation 
and incidentally did Horace Welter a great 
deal of good. There was a sudden and brisk 
demand for his stories ; and in subsequent 
descriptions of marvellous escapes of entirely 
innocent and wrongly-convicted convicts he 
may be said to have excelled himself. He 
grew more daring, and in one instance even 
brought his convict face to face at a dinner- 
party with the governor of the very prison 
from which he had escaped, accounting for 
the man's closely-cropped hair as a mere 
eccentricity on his part. It even happened 
to him that he received more or less illiterate 
letters, from persons who had suffered im- 
prisonment wrongfully, who applauded his 
courage and kindliness of heart, and who 
usually ended by begging for a small loan 
to enable them to make a fresh start in 

I pass to the night of the great adventure. 
It was a summer night, and the day that 
preceded it had been oppressively hot. 
Horace Welter had been unable to work, and 
had given up the attempt ; he had lain 
stretched at full length in a hammock chair 
on the veranda of his house, sighing for a 
breath of wind, and praying for the evening 
and for some degree of accompanying coolness. 
He had glanced once or twice at the sky, with 
the instinctive feeling that a storm was brew- 
ing ; but it was not until after dinner, when 
lights were beginning to twinkle in the house, 
that the storm actually burst. It is still 
spoken of in those parts as a record storm, 
and people remember the date of it. 

It began with sullen thunder and the hiss 
and crackle of lightning ; and then, as though 

the thunder had split the heavens, a very 
deluge poured down — rain that was almost 
tropical in its force and violence and volume. 
The rooms were lighted up from time to time 
with the vividness of the lightning, and Horace 
had to shout on one or two occasions to Mrs. 
Welter to make his voice heard at all above 
the continuous roaring of the storm. Mrs. 
Welter, it may be mentioned, was absolutely 

" There's nothing to be frightened of," 
shouted Horace, to reassure her. 

" It's the loneliness of the house, my dear, 
and the fact that it stands in such an exposed 
position," said Mrs. Welter. " I never liked 

the place at all, and on a night like this 

What on earth's that ? " 

In a lull of the storm there had floated to 
them the long, mournful howl of a dog. After 
that there came to their ears the barking of 
other dogs on distant parts of the estate; 
it might almost have been said that those 
noises accompanied something or someone 
that was moving, like a grim Fate, towards 
the house itself. The storm was less incessant 
now, but was perhaps the more startling 
when, from time to time, the thunder and the 
lightning broke down upon the house. 

It was still muttering sullenly and savagely 
when the servants locked up the house and 
went to bed. They locked up all but one room, 
which was that in which Horace worked. 
He told his wife that he would in all probability 
work late to-night ; the storm had excited 
him, and he fe?t in the mood for burning 
midnight oil. Moreover, he had reached the 
most sensational point of a very sensational 

" He's going to make a fight for it, my dear," 
he said to his wife, rubbing his hands, and 
alluding, of course, to that convict who was at 
that very time engaged in making a miraculous 
escape. " He has been tied hand and foot 
by some stupid peasants who have gone for 
help ; but I have caused him to make friends 
with a dog, who is now successfully chewing 
through the ropes. It's a new idea, and I 
don't think it has been done before. More 
than that, it adds a sympathetic touch, as 
showing the man's power over animals." 

Gradually Horace heard the sounds die 
away in the house ; only now and then came 
the 'distant rumble of thunder — the last 
mutterings of the storm. He had mixed 
himself a mild whisky-and-soda, and had 
lighted a cigar ; the room was very comfort- 
able, and he told himself that quite a number 
of the blank sheets under his hand would be 
filled before ht retired to rest. With a placid 



smile upon his features he settled down to 

He must have been writing steadily for 
over half an hour when his pen stopped, and 
he looked up with a little frown upon his 
face, listening. It seemed incredible, but he 
could have sworn that he had heard a cautious 
shuffling step upon the veranda outside. He 
listened a moment longer, and then smiled, 
and took up his glass and sipped at the con- 
tents ; he bent again over his paper. 

" These stories do move one so," he said, 
happily. " It was only imagination." 

He wrote three words, then very slowly 
and very softly he laid down the pen. His 
eyes were glued upon a heavy window- 
curtain as he moved softly out of his chair 
and away from the desk ; on an impulse he 
tiptoed back to the desk, and noiselessly 
opened a drawer of it and took out a revolver. 
Still with his eyes upon the curtain, he backed 
away to the side of the room, and, fumbling 
for the switch, plunged the room into sudden 

He had time for some very rapid thinking 
while he stood there in the darkness clutching 
the revolver. As a matter of fact, Horace 
did not like revolvers at all, save as necessary 
adjuncts to a sensational narrative. He had 
bought this one some time back as a concession 
to Mrs. Welter's nervousness. The man from 
whom he had bought it had explained the 
mechanism carefully, and had shown him 
exactly how it should be aimed in order to 
operate with the most deadly effect. He was 
secretly annoyed that his hand should shake a 
little as he stood there, gripping the weapon, 
in the darkness. 

A cool wind, with the damp tang of the rain 
in it, blew into the room ; he knew that the 
window was open, and that someone had in all 
probability passed through the curtains into 
the room. Properly speaking, according to the 
stories, there was one thing he ought instantly 
to have done ; with one hand he should have 
switched on the light and with the other, 
holding his weapon steadily, he should have 
covered his man. As a matter of fact, he 
heartily wished that he was out of the room, 
with the key turned in the door on the other 

It was the more disconcerting that the other 
person in the room should be softly and tune- 
lessly whistling through his teeth. The 
whistling came a little nearer — just the mere 
breath of a sound ; and Horace knew that the 
shuffling feet he had heard outside on the 
veranda were now moving towards him, 
deadened by the thickness of the carpet It 

was in a very panic at last that Horace almost 
mechanically moved the switch, and lighted 
the room. But for the life of him he could 
not get up the revolver. 

A tall man, who had been standing within 
two yards of him, suddenly recoiled and 
darted behind the writing-desk. That action 
gave Horace courage ; waveringly he con- 
trived to get the revolver on a level line with 
the man's head ; he called out to him, in a 
voice sharpened by nervousness : — 

" Stop ! I shall shoot if you don't ! " 

The man stopped, eyeing him furtively ; 
he even came a step nearer. Horace, looking 
at him, and beginning with shoes that abso- 
lutely oozed damp, and so letting his glance 
travel up the man, saw what a ludicrous 
figure he cut. The legs of his trousers were 
half-way up his shin-bones ; the waistcoat 
did not meet the trousers at all, but showed a 
roll of shirt in between ; the man's long arms 
stuck out of the sleeves of a tweed jacket, 
which also was much too small for him. But 
the crowning point of all, as the eyes of Horace 
Welter travelled over the clean-shaven face, 
was the man's hair. 

It was clipped close to the skull ! 

" Who are you ? " demanded Horace, in a 
voice that was husky. 

The man seemed to still the chattering of his 
teeth with an effort ; he shivered and touched 
his drenched shoulders. 

" What's it matter ? " he said, in a curiously 
refined voice. " A thing out of the night — 
something born of the storm and the thunder 
and the warring of the elements. Isn't all 
that stamped upon me ? " 

" Where have you come from ? " It was 
an absurd question, but it forced itself through 
the lips of Horace Welter quite against his 
will. The man shivered again and glanced 
over his shoulder towards the window. 

" There's a great prison over there," he 
said, with a jerk of his head. " A place where 
they shut away men as they shut away dogs 
— where they herd them together like swine. 
Haven't you heard the bell ? " 

Horace turned a pallid face to the man and 
slowly shook his head. 

" I couldn't hear anything in a storm like 
this," he said. " You — you've escaped ? " 

The man nodded. " Two hours agdjf he 
said. " I've been doubling about like t^hare 
ever since — except when I met the chap that 
wore these clothes. Heavens ! " — he laughed 
in his throat at the recollection — " I never 
saw anybody in such a blue funk in all my life 
as he was, when I got hold of him and made 
him strip. And It was coming down heavens 



hard, too, at the time ; he whined like a baby, 
and said he'd catch cold. Bad fit, aren't 
they ? " The man held out his half-naked 

The writer in Horace sprang uppermost. 
Not with any great rapidity, but rather in the 
sense that the man recollected something, 
and began, as it wfere mechanically, to per- 
form an old habit. For this was all as it 
should be ; it was simply one of the long 
procession of the lost and damned that had 
escaped in reality, and now stood before him. 
It was wonderful, in a sense, even while there 
was a frightening element in it. For a moment 
it seemed that Horace smiled upon him, as 
one smiles upon a vision realized. 

" It's just my cursed ill-luck to run against 
anyone like you — and armed, too," said the 
man, with a glance at the revolver. " I got 
in on the chance of food and drink ; as 
Heaven's my witness, I would have gone away 
again, and taken my chance outside. But 
the game's up now. What are you going to 
do with me ? " 

The man was leaning heavily against the 
table ; in the utter weariness that was upon 
him it seemed as though he must presently 
sink to the floor. Looking at him more in- 
tently, Horace saw that he must once have 
been a handsome enough fellow, and that he 
was so still, save for that closely-cropped 
hair and for the livid mark of a long scar 
down his right cheek, extending almost from 
the eye to the teeth. But it was a fine face 
and a strong one. 

" You shall have food — and drink," said 
Horace. And the man started suddenly and 
looked up at him in amazement. " What sort 
of man do you think I am to turn upon a 
poor wretch like you ? " 

The man looked at him for a long moment 
or two in silence; then he turned away 
abruptly and threw an arm across his eyes. 
" God bless you ! " he exclaimed, huskily. 
" I didn't think there were men of your sort 
left in the world." 

" Now suppose we give you a brandy-and- 
soda to begin with," said Horace, briskly. 
" Also here are sandwiches." He moved 
across to a table at the side of the room, on 
which the wifely care of Mrs. Welter had 
caused food and drink to be set out for the 
man who might be working far into the night. 
" So please help yourself. You're perfectly 
safe here." 

The man looked at him for a moment, as 
though he would say some further word of 
thanks ; moved across to the table, and 
began to eat ravenously. He half filled a 

tumbler with spirits and drained it ; he 
looked at Horace, and smiled, even while he 
shuddered as the fiery liquid went down his 

" Feeling better ? " asked Horace, genially. 

The man nodded